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MRS. S. M. SCOGIN 
(“ Miss Sammie”) 















Down on the Old 
Plantation 


Original Sketches of Every-day Life on a 
Mississippi Cotton Plantation 


By MRS. S. M. SCOGIN 

AND 

JOHN DICKS HOWE 


SAN FRANCISCO 
1908 



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\ :;,di of Cc-fi&RES^ 

1 lv;:i Oouios Received 

DEC 26 SS03 

Cop>rife-nt tntry j 

C-USS CX KKC. i 


Copyright, 1908, by Mrs, S. M. Scogin and John Dicks Howe. 








PREFACE 


In May, 1907, we submitted our first dialect story to the San Francisco 
Chronicle, with the result that it was accepted and arrangements entered 
into whereby we were to furnish others. Since that time we have furnished 
the Chronicle with a story of this kind for each Sunday edition, and from 
the number of compliments received we feel safe in saying that they have 
been read and appreciated. 

With hearts full of affection and pride, we honor every section of our 
great country, still we must confess that we love our old home better than 
any other spot on earth — the dear old Sunny South, with its irresistable 
charms, its dreamy landscapes, fragrant magnolias and sweet-scented roses. 
Jessamine and honey-suckle ; where the mocking bird, the redbird and the » 
oriole sing as sweetly as ever, and the darkies still hunt “de ’possum an’ 
de coon”; where every heart thrills with pleasure, beats faster, and swells 
with pride at the sound of the sweetest of all Southern melodies — “Dixie.” 

We take this method of publicly expressing our thanks to the Chronicle 
for the use of many of the illustrations found in this little volume, and to 
our friends and the public in general we offer this tribute of our deep and 
lasting love for the dear old Southland. 


THE AUTHORS. 




1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

7 

8 

9 

10 

11 

12 

13 

14 


CONTENTS 


Page 

A Visit to my Old Plantation Home 9 

The Tragic Ejpath of Old Luke 19 

Aunt Patience and the Gypsy Fortune Teller 29 

A Rabbit Hunt on Briers Plantation 41 

Aunt Patience and the Ku Klux Klan 50 

Uncle Tom and the Widow Jenkins 57 

Sarah’s Views on Matrimony.. 68 

When the Cowboys Visited the Plantation 80 

Christmas ’Way Down South in the Land ’o 

Cotton 93 

Thanksgiving in Dixieland 105 

The Trials of a Darky Schoolma’am 116 

Florinda, the Dusky Charmer 128 

On the Plantation “Befo’ de Wah” 136 

Uncle Jack’s Return to the Plantation 147 







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A Visit to My Old Plantation Home 


For many a long, ^ weary day had I been pining for 
a glimpse of this well-remembered, hallowed spot, for 
the dearest place on earth to me is my old Southern 
home, with its dark woods bordered by the rushing 
waters of the grand old Mississippi. To me, there , is 
nothing like the country, nor will there ever be a place 
that I like better. How fair the early mild winter days 
in this soft Southern clime — no frosts or cold winds to 
kill the pretty flowers and leaves ; the sumach glowing 
red and green; the elm, chinquapin and hickory trees 
green and gold, while others are a dead, dark brown. 

Not the least pleasure of travel is the joy of home 
coming, and I am never happier than when here, among 
the old-time, faithful darkies who have watched me 
grow from infancy to womanhood, for they seem so 
happy as they gather around me when I visit their 
humble, but neatly-kept cabins. 

I had just come down from the kitchen garret, now 
used only as a storeroom for unused articles, bringing 
witii me as many of my old-time playthings as I could 
find, and was arranging them on the back porch, to 
see how they would look to my grown-up eyes, when 
I was interrupted by my old black nurse. Mammy 
Mary, exclaiming : 

“Why, lawzee, honey! What you doin’, bringin’ all 
dat old trash down out’n de garret?” 

With her head tied up neatly in a gay, red bandana, 
holding a dust-cloth in her hand, she came to where 
I was arranging the old-time childish treasures. 

“Jes’ come out on de po’ch an’ see what Miss Sam- 
mie’s doin’,’’ she called to the other servants, who were 
busily engaged about their morning’s work in the big 
old-fashioned kitchen. 



DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


11 


‘'For de Lawd sake !” exclaimed old Aunt Tilda, com- 
ing forward and shading her aged dim eyes with one 
hand from the glare of the bright morning sun. “I 
ain’t seed dat little red rockin’ chair befo’ in more’n 
twenty years, an’ dere’s dat little split-bottom white 
oak doll rocker what Uncle Hans made fer you one 
Christmus when you wuz jes’ gittin’ big enulf to begin 
to play wid yer dolls. Dere’s dat little wooden spoon 
an’ mixin’ bowl what he made for you to mix yer mud 
pies in, an’ I do decla’ ef I hadn’t plumb furgot ’bout 
dat little wooden doll cradle what Uncle Hans dug 
out’n er slab of er poplar tree what wuz lef’ over from 
makin’ Aunt Patience’s mixin’ bowl. Yassum, I ’mem- 
bers how ’ticular he- wuz ’bout gittin’ dem rockers on 
straight, jes’ lak hit wuz to rock er sho’ ’nuff baby in, 
an’ how he tied er strong piece of cord to de side of 
hit, so dat you could pull hit an’ rock yer doll babies 
to sleep. Many is de time dat de sand man ketched you 
an’ took you wid him to de slumber land, while you’d 
be er rockin’ in dat little red rocker what uster hold 
yer tiny form, when you wuz big enuff to leave Mammy 
Mary’s faithful, lovin’ old arms. 

“Yassum,” continued Aunt Tilda, “po’ Uncle Hans 
wuz pow’ful handy wid tools, an’ ’twas him dat made 
all dem bread trays an’ biscuit boa’ds an’ mixin’ bowls 
an’ ironin’ boa’ds what we uses in de kitchen now, kase 
dey never wears out an’ gits busted lak de sto’ boughten 
ones does, an’ he uster alius be er makin’ something for 
you when you got big enulf to play wid ’em. Well does 
I ’member de time, honey, when he wuz er wuckin’ on 
dat little round tea table an’ dem six little straight- 
back wooden chairs settin’ over dere by daf pos’. Yas- 
sum, he made ’em all at night, an’ I ’members how his 
wrinkled old face would beam an’ his old eyes would 
glow as he whittled erway in front of de kitchen fire, 
an’ how he’d lalf while talkin’ ’bout how ’sprised you’d 
be on Christmus mornin’, when you’d git up an’ find ’em 
settin’ under yer little white stockin’s er hangin’ on 


12 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

de end of de high mantle, whar Mammy Mary had belt 
you up so dat you could hang ’em wid yer own ban’s. 
You sho’ wmz proud of ’em, chile, an’ you loved all 
yer playthings, no matter ef dey wuz home-made an’ — 
dar now, ef I ain’t gone an made you cry, by talkin’ all 
dis foolishness. Don’t cry, honey, kase we don’t care 
how many of de old playthings dat you fetches down, 
ka§e we all laks to look at ’em.” 

'‘Dar’s dat little red tin bucket what you uster call 
3'er milk bucket,” cried ’Lias, examining it carefully. 

“Does yer ’member de time, Miss Sammie, when you 
an’ Zan went out in de pasture, to whar old Rose wuz 
er browsin’, an’ how you went up to her on de wrong 
side, tellin’ Zan to watch you milk dat cow? Old Rose 
wuzn’t used to bein’ milked on de wrong side, an’ you 
hadn’t more’n touched her bag befo’ she up wid her 
foot an’ kicked you ’longside de hade so hard dat you 
didn’t know er thing till Zan dragged you mos’ to de 
house, he er hollerin’ an’ er cryin’ loud as he could. 
Yer ma an’ Mammy Mary both thought dat er snake 
had bit you, so Mammy grabbed de bottle of turpen- 
tine an’ er bundle of white bandages dat she alius kept 
handy on de pantry shelf. All de niggers at de house 
followed her as she runned to whar you wuz, while 
Uncle Jack wuz er puttin’ de saddle on old Jim Har- 
per, so’s to be ready to go fer de doctor. When we 
found dat hit wmzn’t no wuss den er knot what wuz 
raised on yer hade by old Rose, de gentles’ cow on 
de plantashun, we wuiz at er loss to know what to make 
out’n hit till you opened yer little black eyes an’ asked 
me to go back an’ git yer little milk bucket what you 
drapped when de cow kicked you. Dat sho’ wuz er 
lesson to you, kase you never tried to milk no mo’ 
cows from dat day to dis.” 

“See here, honey!” exclaimed Aunt Tilda, as she 
held in her hand a little sheep that she discovered 
among my treasures. “Does yer ’member how you 
uster play wid Nannie, an’ how you uster holler 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


13 


‘M-a-a-h !’ when you’d be ’tendin’ dat she dun los’ her 
ma? I ’member de time when Uncle Jack went* to 
Natchez wid ole Marsa, an’ how he laffed when he 
corned back an’ showed us de little woolly sheep dat 
he buye^ for j^ou, kase hit wuz nigh yer buthday, an’ 
how he went out in de back yard an’ put hit in er 
chinaberry tree, tellin’ you dat all little sheeps growed 
on trees, an’ how yer little eyes did sparkle when he 
dumb de tree an’ drapped hit in yer little white apron. 
Does yer ’member de time, honey, when you wuz er 
chasin’ Zan, wid yer little lammie under yer arm, how 
you fell an’ broke little Nannie’s hade otf, an’ how you 
runned to de stable an’ wanted Uncle Jack to hitch up 
er buggy an’ drive you to de doctor, an’ how happy 
you wuz when Uncle Hans glued de hade- on for you?” 

“Well, ef here ain’t old Black Topsy, de old wooden 
doll what you uster call yer doll’s nuss,” cried Aunt 
Patience, coming out of the kitchen, holding aloft my 
favorite doll. 

“Where did you find her?” I asked, as the tears 
gathered in my eyes. 

“Packed erway down in de bottom of dat old hair- 
covered doll trunk, wid her clothes all wrinkled up,” 
she answered, handing me my old treasure. “I sho’ 
w^ould er knowed her anywhar, wid her blue bead ear- 
rings an’ red nose an’ mouth. Lawd, honey,” she con- 
tinued, “does yer ’member de time when you uster set 
her in dat little doll rocker, placin’ er little china doll 
what you called one of de twins in her lap ? Den you’d 
take de udder one, an’ whilst you’d be er rockin’ hit, 
you’d be er tellin’ Black Topsy to be mighty keerful 
an’ not drap de baby. I ’members one day, when you 
corned out in de kitchen, cryin’ hard as you could, 
draggin’ old Black Topsy by one arm, an’ how you 
told Mammy Mary to git de smoke-house key an’ come 
wid you, kase you wanted to lock de old nuss up in 
hit fer er whole week, sayin’ dat she dun drapped de 
twins an’ broke de arm of one' of ’em. Den, after 



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Packed erway down in de bottom of dat old hair-covered doll trunk/ 




15 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

lockin' Black Topsy np, how you went back to cle twin 
an’ sent for de doctor, an’ how Ave did laif Avhen yer 
brother Zan. who alius played lak he wuz de doctor, 
corned er ridin’ down de back po’ch on dat old iron 
shovel what he used fer er hoss, wearin’ dem sheepskin 
whiskers Avhat ’Lias made for him, carryin’ his saddle 
bags filled wid medicine in front of him. After he dun 
’tended lak he set de doll’s arm, an’ Mammy Mary glued 
hit in place, you wuz all smiles ergin, tellin' Mammy 
Mary to go wid you to git de pris'ner.out er jail, you 
er sayin’ dat any miss avuz liable to drap er baby some- 
times, no matter hoiv keerful dey avuz, ’specially ef hit 
vmz crupy an’ Avouldn't sit still. Den you'd hug dat 
old black doll, kissin' her lak you hadn’t seed her in er 
month, an’ I uster laff vdien 1 heard you say to her: 
‘You didn’t mean to drap dat baby, did you, Topsy ?’ 
You sho’ did lak dat old black doll better'n any of 
dem fine ivax an’ china dolls what ^liss Frances uster 
buy for you in Natchez an’ New Orleans, an’ I b’lieve 
you loves her yet,” she added, as she noted with what 
tenderness I smoothed out the time-yellowed Avhite 
apron and cap strings. 

“Yes,” I answered, “I think I loved Black Topsy -the 
best of any doll I ever possessed,” at Avhich Aunt Pa- 
tience and the rest of the servants laughed heartily. 

“Whar’d you git her, Miss Sammie?” asked Lucetta, 
the young housemaid, who was an interested spectator, 
as she took Black Topsy from my hands and looked her 
over curiously. 

“Uncle Hans made dat doll for Miss Sammie long 
befor’ you avuz born or cA^er thought of, chile,” an- 
swered Aunt Tilda. 

“Hips no Avonder dat Miss Sammie laked her, kase 
she could fling her ’round jes’ anyway an’ not break 
her, but she sho’ ain’t much fer beauty,” commented 
the young darkey. 

“Well, no matter, I loved her anyway,” was my re- 
ply, “even if she would not count for much as a 


16 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

prize winner in a beauty show. I loved all my play- 
things, and no toys, no matter how costly, were ever 
appreciated or enjoyed more than these rude ones, 
made for me by faithful, devoted old black hands that 
have long since gone to their reward in a brighter, bet- 
ter world.” 

“Dar, now, honey, don’t cry no mo’,” said Mammy 
i\Iary, as she noticed tear after tear coursing down my 
cheeks. “I ’lows de sight of all dese playthings do 
bring back old mem’ries of de happy days when we 
wuz all here together. In dem days dere warn’t no 
separations, only durin’ de school months, an’ den wliat 
times we’d have when you all corned home for yer va- 
cations an’ at Christmus. Dey makes me think of de 
old times, too, honey, when I uster take you in my 
arms an’ rock you to sleep, jes’ lak you did yer dollies. 
You'd sing de same songs to dem what I alius sung 
to you, an’ you’d scold ’em jes’ lak I did you, an’ many 
is de time dat me an’ Aunt Tilda would hide ourselves, 
jes’ to hear what you’d say to ’em, an’ how we’d both 
laif when we’d hear you sing : 

‘Shet yer little eyes fer de by-lo-lan', my honey, 

Shet yer little eyes fer de by-lo-lan’, my bab}^’ 

‘‘Den you’d tell ’em to stop singin’ wid you an’ shut 
dem eyes an’ go to sleep, kase you wanted to git ready 
an’ go to clinch, jes’ lak I talked to you on Sunday 
nights, when hit wuz mos’ chuch time an’ you didn’t 
want to go to sleep. When I’d git you ready fer bed, 
I’d set down in de big armchair to rock you to sleep, 
an’ I alius ’lowed you to sing wid me, less’n hit wuz 
Sunday night an’ I wuz in er hurry to git you to sleep, 
so’s to be ready by de time Sis Calline an’ Aunt Tilda 
wuz ready to stpt. Whilst I’d be er singin’ 

“ ‘Shet yer little eyes fer de by-lo-lan’, honey? 

You’d sing, too; den I’d scold you an’ tell you dat I 
wanted you to hurry up an’ go to sleep. Sometimes 
you’d have one han’ ’ginst my cheek, whilst you’d be 
er holdin’ yer tiny foot in de udder, whisperin’ right 
easy, so da^ you thought I wouldn’t hear you : 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


17 


“ ‘Shet little fer by-lo-lan’ baby.’ 

When I’d scold you ergin, tollin’ yon dat Gawd wuzn’t 
er ’gwine to love er little gal what wouldn’t go to' 
sleep an’ let her po’ old black mammy go to chuch, 
den you’d hush up an’ shet yer eyes dat tight dat you 
couldn’t prize ’em open wid er stick ; den I’d take you 
upstairs an’ tuck you in yer little white bed, kneelin’ 
down an’ pattin’ you into er sound sleep, wlnlst I’d 
be er prayin’ dat de good Lawd would watch over 
you, protectin’ an’ keepin’ you from all hawn. 

“I alius made hit er rule to pat you fer er little while 
after I dun laid you in yer bed, kase you’d alius wake 
up ef I didn’t, an' for many er year after you wuz 
too big to be rocked, I’d kneel down b}" yur bed, even 
when I wuz wid you in de boa’din’-school, pattin’ you 
to sleep whilst I’d sing de same lullaby dat I sung to 
you when you wuz er little baby, 

“Even now, honey, I often dreams dat I’se er pattin’ 
you to sleep,” continued Mammy Mary, wuping big 
tears from her old eyes. “I often wakes up from er 
dream, thinkin’ dat I’m er kneelin’ down by de side of 
yer little bed, singin’ an’ pattin’ you to sleep, an’ one 
night, not long ago, I waked myself up er singing’ in 
my dreams : 

“ ‘Shet yer little eyes fer de by-lo-lan’, my honey.’ 

“Yassi^m, I sho’ am glad when you comes home, kase 
it seems lak old times when you’re here wid us,” said 
my faithful old nurse, who still loves me, despite the 
weary years that have elapsed ^since she used, to sing 
her own quaint lullaby as she alone could croon it. 

Memory will never .grow so faint as to forget the 
old plantation home, with its tender ties, around which 
my most sacred thoughts love to linger. Yet how 
changed it is since the faces that lighted it are gone and 
the voices that cheered it are forever stilled in its dear 
old walls. The Southern mocking birds sing their merry 
songs as sweetly as of old in the thick clump 'of low- 
' limbed cedars, where in childhood’s happy days the 


18 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


rabbits always hid a nest at Easter time; the gentle 
turtle doves still coo their tender melody as softly as 
ever in the trees overhead, while a great cluster of 
golden chrysanthemums, with a sprinkling of purple 
ones, sland in the same old place just outside my bed- 
room window, their blossoms almost too heavy to be 
suppo;*ted by their slender stems, weighted down ’neath 
their own beauty. The sweet fragrance of the mag- 
nolia is wafted through the open door, mingled with 
the odor of the sweet briar ’neath the kitchen window, 
while from the darkey quarters in th^ distance comes 
the sound of merry laughter and fragments of old-time, 
familiar plantation songs which I loved so well in those 
halcy-on days. 

But oh, how things have changed ! I leaned back in 
my chair with a sigh as I realized that the old-time, 
happy days are gone and can never, never come back 
again. There is an intangible something wanting, mak- 
ing my longed-for home-coming incomplete. 


The Tragic Death of Old Luke 


It was the day before Thanksgiving, and the darkies 
on the famous old Briers plantation were happy in 
anticipation of the many good things promised them by 
“Marse” Frank, the owner of the vast acres. The first 
streak of dawn creeping over the distant hills found 
them astir, the men chopping wood and carrying water, 
while the women busied themselves among- the pots and 
kettles in the mellow glow of their fire-lit cabins, pre- 
paring the morning meal for those whose duties called 
them to the fields of cotton. 

In the cabin occupied by Uncle Gabe and Aunt 
Patience half a dozen rollicking pickaninnies were 
tumbling over one another in front of the blazing logs, 
laughing gleefully at the roaring fiames and bright 
sparks leaping up the broad chimney, while a couple of 
mangy hounds were curled up near a hair.-covered 
trunk, upon which was perched an old speckled rooster 
which the day before had been crippled by one of the 
mules stepping on its leg. 

“Is termorrow Christmus, granny?” inquired Christo- 
pher Napoleon, one of Aunt Patience’s grandchildren, 
when the latter announced that breakfast would soon 
be ready. 

“No, chile, hit won’t be Christmus for er long time 
yet; .tomorrow’s Thanksgiving,” answered Aunt Pa- 
tience. 

“What IS Thanksgivin,’ granny, an’ does we haye any 
firecrackers?” questioned Henry Clay, rolling his big. 
round eyes until the whites alone were visible. 

“Thanksgivin’ is der day what de President dun set 
aside in his approximation for us all to give thanks fer 
de many blessings dat de Lawd dun ’stowed on us 
durin’ de yeah,” explained Aunt Patience. “I certainly 


20 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


does feel powerful thankful dat none ob you tarnacious 
niggahs ain’t been killed or crippled, ’cause youse 
always up to some debilmint, an’ hit’s jes’ owin’ to de 
good Lawd’s will dat yer hain’t bin killed long ergo. 
No, Marse Frank won’t ’low no firecrackers on de plan- 
tashun tomorrow, but we sho’ is er gwine ter have big 
doin’s an’ lots er turkey meat.” 

‘'Is. yer gwine ter kill ole' Hezekiah, what Marse 
Frank’s dun had in de pen so long ?” inquired Salina 
Jane, snatching one of her stockings which another 
pickaninny was endeavoring to put on. 

‘'Don’t ax me, chile; you’ll have to find dat out 
frum ’Lias, kase he’s dun got his 'orders ’bout which 
turkeys Miss Genie wants killed,” "was the answer. 

Without stopping to eat the breakfast she had hur- 
riedly prepared for the others. Aunt Patience and 
Lucetta hastily threw their woolen shawls over their 
heads and started for the “White House,” to superin- 
tend the preparation of the morning meal for the white 
folks. As they passed along the negro quarters Aunt 
Tilda’s shrill voice could be heard, singing : 

“Fly, skeeter, high; git my foot on de back ob a 
skeeter’s neck an’ make dat skeeter fly.” 

One and all had good reasons for being happy on this 
bright, crisp November morning, for the day before 
“Marse” Frank had announced that the darkies might 
clear out the big barn, invite the negroes from the ad- 
joining plantations and enjoy an old-fashioned dance, 
to be followed by a midnight supper. 

Both Aunt Mary and Aunt Patience had been em- 
powered with full authority to prepare reHeshments" 
that would eclipse anything of the kind ever given on 
'Briers plantation, and as soon as, breakfast was over 
they began preparations by beating eggs, grating sweet 
potatoes which were to be made into immense rich 
puddings, seeding raisins for the mince pies, rolling 
ginger-bread dough and cutting the cakes into gro- 
tesque figures, later baking them to a rich golden brown' 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


21 


in the huge hot oven. Over in one corner of the kitchen 
three little pickaninnies were grouped, one busily en- 
gaged in “^sopping” a skillet in which ham had been 
cooked, the second munching crisp ham skins, while the 
third was scraping the dish in which the cake batter 
had been mixed. So busy were they all that they did 
not hear ’Lias, the “house man” on the plantation, until 
he stuck his head through one of the kitchen windows 
and asked if they were all asleep. 

‘'What’s de mattah wid you people in heah?” he 
shouted, glancing inquiringly at the two cooks. “Fo’ 
Gawd, I’se been er squawlin’ my lungs clean out tryin’ 
fer to git you niggahs ter come out heah in de barn- 
yard an’ hep me ’cide which ob de gobblers ter kill. 
Hit’s high time I was er gittin’ ’em picked an dressed, 
so’s to put ’em ter roastin’ de fust thing in de mawnin’. 
Ef we kills ole Luke, he’ll have ter be put in de oven 
bright an’ early, keze he sho’ly am er tuff ole cuss. I, 
fer one, am mighty glad he’s gwine ter git it in de neck, 
kase he’s Vie — ” 

“But he’s not going to get it in the neck,” cried 
Walter, the plantation owner’s nephew, as he sprang 
through the open door upon hearing ’Lias’ statement. 
“Aunt Tilda gave Luke to me when he was nothing 
but a little downy bunch of fuzz, and he’s not going 
to furnish meat for any Thanksgiving dinner while I’m 
around to protect him,” he added, giving ’Lias a savage 
look. 

Five minutes later, when ’Lias headed the procession 
to the barnyard, it was with some misgivings, for he 
had been ordered by the manager’s wife, whom the 
darkies all called “Miss Genie,” to select the fattest .and 
oldest gobblers, and old Luke was by long odds the 
fattest and proudest one in the lot. There were good 
reasons why he should be fat, for Walter never left' the 
table without providing a treat for his pet, oftep taking 
such a quantity of. food that Aunt Patience would 
soundly lecture him for his extravagance. 


22 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


“Fer de Lawd sake, see dat chile er totin’ out enough 
vittels to feed er hawg,” she would often exclaim. 

Walter was the first to reach the barnyard, and when 
he saw the darkies coming he put his arms protectingly 
about his pet gobbler, telling him not to be at all afraid, 
as he would see that no harm came to him. 

“Why, Luke,” he said, hugging his pet affectionately, 
“I could no more eat you than I could one of my little 
playmates. Nobody but that old pig-headed ’Lias 
would want to chop your head off, and he’s not going 
to do it. This old barnyard would be a mighty lone- 
some place if you were not here to make it lively strut- 
ting around and gobbling from morning until night, 
making all the other lazy old gobblers look like a tin 
spoon in a baby’s mouth. Here they come. Stick close 
to me, Luke, and you’ll be all right.” 

“Jes’ see dat ole Luke er scrutchin’ up to dat chile,” 
remarked Aunt Patience, nudging Aunt Mary. “Dat 
ole gobbler knows dat hit’s Thanksgivin’ an’ dat he’s 
in danger ob losin’ his haid, but dat chile sho’ does think 
er lot of old Luke.” 

Despite the orders of the mistress to kill the oldest 
and fattest gobblers, younger and poorer ones were 
selected. For three years Luke had been monarch of 
the barnyard, and when he strutted by on his usual 
morning parade all the other fowls stopped their busy 
scratching to watch him as he proudly marched back 
and forth, scraping the tender grass, with his long, 
glossy wings and drawing his snout down until it lay 
upcn his brown-feathered neck. 

Luke was not at all timid ; in fact, he was almost too 
fearless at times for his own good, having had several 
narrow escapes from being killed by some of the vicious 
mules that objected to the familiar manner in which 
he approached them and picked flies off their hind legs. 
His great activity, however, always saved him, and 
Walter ^enjoyed many a hearty laugh while watching 
Luke creep back for another fly. The gobbler was 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 23 

always exceedingly cautious upon the second approach, 
stretching his neck as far forward as possible and jerk- 
ing his head back before the mule had a chance to strike 
him Avitii his heavy iron-shod heels. 

Walter's cousin, Daisy Holmes of Natchez, was visit- 
ing on the plantation, it being her intention to return 
to her home soon after the festivities, to prepare for her 
wedding. Jack Duncan, Daisy's fiance, had planned to 
spend Thanksgiving on Briers and was due to arrive on 
the “Betsy Ann” that* afternoon. 

About noon, when the darkies announced that the 
smoke from the boat could be seen in the bend above 
the plantation, Daisy was in tears and deep distress, 
for the reason that she had, in some unaccountable 
manner, either misplaced or lost the diamond ring 
which Jack had given her. early in the spring. For 
many months it had been a constant reminder of the 
happy days to come, and it seldom happened that she 
left it off her slender, dainty finger. On the mmrixing 
in question she had, she thought, placed it in the pretty 
pirxk plush case on the dresser while^ she went to assist 
her aunt in the preparations for Thanksgiving. Return- 
ing later to her room and finding the ring missing, she 
hastily ran into her aunt’s room to inform her of her 
loss. No one had been in Daisy’s room that morning 
but the housemaid, Lucetta, Aunt Patience’s youngest 
girl, and she was above suspicion, having lived all her 
life on the plantation and being trusted implicitly. 

On this particular morning, however, Lucetta had 
lingered about the dainty dresser, spending consider- 
able time in examining the different pieces of jewelry 
closely. Taking a long string of pink coral beads from 
the dresser, she twined them about her shiny brown 
neck, then picked up a fancy Rair ornament and stuck 
’t in the side of her woolly pompadour. Catching sight 
of the ring sparkling in the plush case, Lucetta removed 
it and proceeded to admire it closely. A moment later 
she slipped it on her fat, brown finger and stepped back 


24 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

to admire herself in .the large oval mirror. Fearing the 
return of her mistress, she hastily tore the beads from 
her neck and the ornaments from her hair, but when 
she endeavorered with trembling fingers to remove the 
ring, to her sore dismay it stuck hard and fast. Hear- 
ing approaching footsteps, the girl almost tore the 
flesh from her finger in a desperate effort to remove 
the ring' before Miss Daisy could reach the room. 

“Ef I jes’ had some ob dat soft lye soap in de smoke- 
house,” she gasped, “I knows I could git de ring off, 
an’ I’se er gwine to snea*k down de back stairs an’ git 
some right dis minute.” 

With lightning speed Lueetta ran down the back 
stairs, three at a time, and proceeded to the smoke- 
house. Securing a handful of the slick lye soap, she 
ran to the broad wooden trough near the well to make 
some thick suds and work with all her strength to 
remove the ring before the swelling grew worse. It 
finally yielded to the strong pull she gave it with her 
teeth. 

“Dp now,” she exclaimed, “dat’s what I gits fer not 
mindin’ my mammy, what alius tole me never to tech 
nothin’ what b’longs to de white folks. Fo’ de Lawd, 
I’se never gwine ter put my black ban’s on ernudder 
thing what don t b’long to me, not as long as de grass 
grows an’ water runs. Dis sho’ly will be er lesson to 
me as long as I lives.” 

Placing the ring on the edge of the trough, Lueetta 
turned to draw a bucket of water from the deep well 
in order that she might wash the dirty suds from the 
delicate ring that sparkled in the bright sunlight. With, 
the bucket half way to the top, the girl stopped a 
moment to get her breath, for it held five gallons and 
the effort was taxing her ’strength to the limit. 

At this moment old Luke strutted up, as proud as 
a peacock. Holding on to the rope, Lueetta for a 
moment forgot her troubles, lost in admiration of the 
old gobbler’s plumage and proud carriage. 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


25 


“You sho’ly does make er handsome ’pearance, Luke,” 
she remarked, as the gobbler strutted around the 
■ferough in plain view. A second later Luke espied the 
sparkling diamond and filled Lucetta with horror as he 
deliberately walked up, picked up the ring and pecked 
at it, trying to loosen the stone from the setting. Not 
succeeding in this, he threw Mp his head, backed and 
gulped the ring, setting and all. 

For an instant Lucetta stood as though paralyzed, 
then, realizing what had happened and forgetting that 
she held to the rope, let it slip through her fingers. 
Down went the bucket, bursting the bottom out of it as 
it struck with great force the water below. Breathless 
and frantic with fright, tfie girl ran to the kitchen, 
where her mother was bending over a big platter of* 
eggs being frothed for the icing of a huge cake. 
Throwing her arms around her mother’s neck, Lucetta 
sobbed wildly and for a moment it seemed that her 
heart would break. 

“What’s de matter wid you, chile?” exclaimed Aunt 
Patience, stopping in the midst of her work. “Come 
now, honey, an’ tell yer po’ ole mammy what’s hap- 
pened to you. I ’lows dat some ob dem niggers frum 
Glasscock’s Island, what’s been er haulin’ cotton to de • 
gin, has dun said so-methin’ ’suitin’ to my gal. Now, 
chile, you jes’ up an’ tell yo’ ole mammy what dey said.” 

“No, no, no, mammy, dat ain’t it,” cried Lucetta, 
after several attempts to regain her voice. 

Finally, between sobs, the girl told her mother of the 
incident at the well, finishing the story just as Daisy, 
who had been attracted by the girl’s sobbing, entered. 
Looking up and catching sight of her sweet, tear- 
stained face, Lucetta ran to where she stood and threw 
herself upon her knees. 

“Oh, Miss Daisy, I didn’t mean to steal yo’ ring, 
what I knowed was yer ’gagement ring,” she cried. “I 
knows yer can’t never forgive me for what I’se dun, 
but, fo’ de Lawd, I’se tellin’ de truth an’ only wanted 


26 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

to see how my han’ would look wid er real diamond er 
shinin’ on hit.’’ 

Walter, who was a witness to the confession that 
followed, turned pale and heartsick, for he realized© 
that it meant death to his dear old Luke, as the ring 
would have to be recovered before coming in contact 
with the coarse gravel in the gobbler’s gizzard. Chok- 
ing back the big lump that gathered in his throat, he 
sought his aunt and requested permission to visit the , 
house of one of the neighbors until the ordeal was over. 

Old ’Lias, who had heard everything, put his hand 
over his pipe and grinned. 

'‘1 knowed dat ole greedy Luke would come to er 
bad end some day,” he said, addressing his remarks to 
Uncle Pete, ‘'kase he’s alius er projikin erround er 
stickin’ his ole bill whar he had no business, an’ er 
perkin’ his snout up at all de udder fowls. He jes’ 
’magined he was too good to eat what de rest ob de 
fowls was er gittin,’ an’ little Walter jes’ spiled him er 
feedin’ him wid scraps from de table. He, he, he !” he 
chuckled, backing up against the side of the /‘White 
House.” “I’se er gwine right down to Uncle Amos’ tool 
chist an’ git de sharpest hatchet what I kin find, den I’ll 
trap de ole thief wid er piece ob ginger-bread.” 

’Lias lost no time in putting his threat into execu- 
tion, and after a lot of coaxing old Luke finally stepped 
up, eyed the dainty morsel and made a lunge for it. 
As he did so ’Lias grabbed him, being almost lifted 
fiom his feet by the gobbler’s fierce struggle for 
freedom. 

“Jes’ come here an’ see ’Lias er waltzin’ wid ole 
Luke!” exclaimed Aunt Mary, addressing Aunt Pa- 
tience, as she stuck her head through the kitchen 
window. 

“You sho’ly am er good fighter, Luke, an’ you mighty 
nigh took all de wind outen me, er tryin’ to git away, 
so’s to git in mo’ debilmint, but hit’s all up wid you dis 
time,” cried ’Lias, as he tightened his grip on the 



’ Lias, who had heard everything, put his hand over his pipe and 
grinned.” 


28 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION, 


gobbler’s wings. “You thought you’d have er gay time, 
er sashshayin’ erround wid er diamond in dat ole fat 
gizzard ob yourn, but ^at was one time dat you dun 
de wrong thing. When you flunged dat diamond ring 
in de air an’ den gulped hit down yer greedy ole 
throat you jes’ signed yer death warrant, an’ Marse 
Frank ain’t er gwine to pardon you dis time. When I 
gits ybu in de oven in de mornin’ you won’t hab quite 
so much room for to splurge erround like youse been 
er doin’ every day on de lawn, when you’d see Mistah 
Walter cornin’ out to. feed you.” 

Calling Aunt Patience to help him, ’Lias brought the 
sharp hatchet down with such force as to completely 
sever the gobbler’s head at the first blow. Daisy was 
overjoyed when LucCtta, still showing the effects of her 
violent weeping, ran into her room, placed the ring in 
her hand and burst into a fresh fit of weeping. 

“I hope yer dbn’t think I wanted to steal yo’ ring. 
Miss Daisy,” she cried. “I jes’ wanted to see how hit 
would look on my finger, dat was all, an’ I’se never 
gwine to tech nothin’ dat don’t b’long to me no mo’. 
Won’t you please say dat you’ll forgive me. Miss 
Daisy?” 

“Yes, I’ll forgive you this time, Lucetta,” answered 
Daisy, “but you must be careful in the future and not 
meddle with things that belong to others. Go to your 
old mother and tell her that I’m not mad at you and 
that hereafter you’ll be a good girl. Then you may 
finish cleaning my room.” 

Placing the ring on her finger, Daisy hurried to the 
steamboat landing, wdiere over 300 of the darkies were 
gathered to watch the Betsy Ann round the bend and 
witness the meeting between the lovers when Jack 
Duncan stepped ashore. 

Daisy was happy now, since the highly prized ring 
had been restored, uninjured, but poor little Walter 
went to bed with a heavy heart that night, and it was 
many a day before he ceased to talk about his pet 
gobbler and its tragic death. 


4 


Aunt Patience and the Gypsy Fortune 
Teller 


Yon, Christopher Napoleon !” shouted Aunt Patience, 
as I eame out of my room one morning on the Briers 
plantation, “ef you an’ dat lazy Grover Clevlan’ don’t 
stop er fightin’ an’ git to wuck er choppin’ on dat pile 
of stovewood, lak I told you, I’se er gwine to gin you 
both to dat band of gypsies what’s camped down ’long- 
side de big road in Marse Prank’s cedar woods.” 

“That’s right, give it to them. Aunt Patience, for 
they haven’t done a thing but play all morning,” I 
cried, as the two darkies hid behind the big pile of 
wood. 

‘T sho’ will,” she answered, “for when dem gypsies 
gits you two boys dey’ll make you wuck day an’ night, 
makin’ you stay up all night wid dem po’ bony dogs, 
watchin’ der bosses, ’sides pullin’ grass for ’em an’ 
pickin’ de cockle burrs out’n defe manes an’ tails. By 
de time you has bin wid ’em er week you’ll wish dat 
you had ’haved yerselves an’ minded what yer po’ old 
granny told you. You needn’t stand dere, rollin’ dem 
big white eyes of yourn at me lak er skeert mule,, kase 
I knows dem gypsies has already got dere eyes sot 
on two or three of you young niggers, an’ dat dey’s 
er fixin’ fer to steal you when dey gits ready to pull 
out, kase dey wants to make slaves out’n you, makin’ 
you git up befo’ sunrise an’ ’tend to dat drove of 
bosses what dey carries ’round de country fer to trade 
wid. Dat old gypsy man what wuz iip here dis mornin’, 
er nosin’ eround, has got er purty sharp eye, I’m here 
to tell you, an’ I seed him er cuttin’ hit at you an’ 
Grover more’n once. He knows dat he could make you 
pull grass an’ steal corn for dem bosses, an’ curry an’ 
rub ’em till dey’d be slick an’ glossy, so dey could sell 


30 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


or trade ’em for good bargains, lak dat man in Natchez 
did wid dem two match bosses what Marse Albert 
buyed las’ spring. Caleb ’lowed de minnte he sot eyes 
on ’em dat dey wmz slicked up fer to sell, an’ dat hit 
would take mighty hard wuck fer to keep ’em up, an’ 
sho’ enuff, dar’s bin trouble erround dis place ever 
sence Marse Albert bought ’em. He ’lows dat .Uncle 
Jack don’t half try to keep’ em shinin’, but Uncle Jack 
s&ys dat he kin see whar de brillantine what wuz put 
on dere shaggy old hair is er wearin’ off in patches, 
kase all dem old hoss traders puts hit on dere stock 
to make ’em shine till dey kin sell ’em. Now you two 
niggers git to wuck right erway, an’ don’t let me come 
out here an’ ketch you er playin’ mo mo’.” 

“Have you been down to the gypsy camp yet?” I 
asked Aunt Patience, as she returned to the kitchen. 

“Yassum, I sho’ has,” she replied, getting me a com- 
fortable chair and brushing it with her apron. “Me 
an’ Sis’ Calline an’ Sis Polly an’ er whole passel of 
de udder wimmen went down to dere camp Saturday 
night. Dat gypsy woman had bin erround to all our 
cabins, tellin’ us dat ef we wanted our fortunes told 
to come to see her, an’ dat de ones what didn’t have 
enuff money to pay for dere fortunes could pay part in 
trade.” 

“What did she mean by paying part in trade?” I 
questioned. 

“Why, honey,” answered the faithful old cook, “she 
meant for us to pay her wid eggs an’ butter, pecans 
or walnuts, ’simmons or chickens, or anything dat we 
had, but we all had to pay her some in cash. I loaned 
Sis’ Calline half er dollar, keepin’ fo’ bits for myself; 
den we took er lot er truck an’ started fer de camp. 
Whilst we wuz er walkin’ ’long de road, laffin’ an’ 
cuttin’ up, we looked back an’ seed some of de men 
cornin’, too, dey er tellin’ us dat dey wuz jes’ followin’ 
us fer to see de fun, but, lo an’ behold, when Caleb 
got dere he wuz as anxious fer to have his fortune told 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


31 


as I wuz, an’ Brudder Jackson lowed dat he wuz er 
gwine to have his’n told, too. Dat gypsy woman dun 
said as how Sis’ Calline wuz er gwine to marry er 
pow’fiil han’some man ’tween now an’ next fall, an’ 
dat sho’ did upset dat old man of her’n, what’s bin 
married to her fer nigh onto forty years.” 

“What did she tell you?” 

“What did she tell me?” repeated Aunt Patience, eye- 
ing me suspiciously. “La, honey, you jes’ oughter 
heard what all dat fat old greasy woman did tell me. 
You see, honey, hit wuz lak dis: De whole flock of us 
niggers went dere together, an’ when we got to de 
do’ of de tent, er gypsy man corned out’n er wagon 
an’ axed which one wanted to have dere fortunes told 
fust. We all kinder hung back, one waitin’ for de 
udder to go fust, an’ to tell you de Gawd’s truth. Miss 
Sammie, I felt erfraid to go in. I wuz dat anxious fer 
to hear what de woman would tell me dat I fo’ced up 
my courage an’ ’lowed dat I wuz ready to go fust. 
After I got inside de tent an’ stood er gazin’ erround, 
scared half to death, er curtain at de back end of de 
canvas wuz slowly drawed erside an’ er short, dark, 
fat woman stood kinder in de shadow made by de light 
from er candle what wuz burnin’ on er box what wuz 
turned upside down, servin’ as er table. Fo’ de Lawd, 
honey. I thought at fust dat hit wuz er ghost; but I 
put dis an’ dat together an’ I knowed dat no ghost 
would be er wearin’ er red shawl, wid er yaller-bor- 
dered handkerchief tied over its hade. When I got 
through blinkin’ my eyes I jes’ brung up all de cour- 
age I had wid me an’ walked right in an’ took er seat 
on er stool what de gypsy motioned for me to set on. 
Lookin’ erround, I noticed dat she had made de end 
of de tent look lak er alcove, drapin’ hit heavily wid 
Injun blankets of all colors, an’ hit sho’ did look 
spooky to me. 

“I didn’t know jes’ how to ’dress de lady, but when 
she looked at me lak she wanted me to say something, 


32 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

I jes’ blurted out dat I wuz one of de wimmen what 
had promised to come an’ have our fortunes told. 
When I axed her de price, she said dat bein’ as we had 
promised to pay part in trade, she wouldn’t charge us 
de reg’lar price what she charged de white folks. Den 
she axed how much money I could let her have, at 
de same time lookin’ kinder sideways at my apron 
what I had filled wid different things I had fetched 
erlong. I showed her de fo’ bits what I brung, but 
she ’lowed dat she couldn’t tell much fer dat, sayin’ 
she alius charged $2 for er trance readin’ when she 
got all cash. Finally she said dat as I wuz er hard- 
wuckin’ woman, she’d go in er trance ef I had enuff 
in trade to finish hit out ; so I took de two dozen eggs, 
some dried apples an’ some ’simmons, an’ er cake of 
butter an’ er glass of plum jelly, tellin’ her dat wuz 
all I brunged wid me. After she took ’em she axed me 
ef I couldn’t git her er little piece of ham or bacon 
to go wid hit, so I told her ef she’d perseed wid de 
fortune I’d fetch de ham or bacon, whichever Miss 
Genie would give me, Sunday afternoon, arter I got 
through wid my dinner dishes. She ’lowed dat she 
could read de cards for 50 cents, an’ read de palm for 
ernudder 50, but dat trances corned er little higher. 
I wuz ’termined to have de trance readin’, kase I 
wanted to see how hit wuz done; so she told me to 
cross her palm wid silver an’ she’d go on. She hung 
on to dat 50 cents de minute hit teched her palm ; den 
she leaned back in de big armchair what she wuz er 
settin in, an’ ’gun to shiver an’ tremble lak she wuz 
mos’ froze ; den her eyes ’gun to roll as she gived two 
or three real hard jerks, lak she wuz flingin’ er fit.” 

“Weren’t you awfully frightened?” 

“Hit’s de Gawd’s truth, honey, I wuz skeert dat bad 
dat I mos’ fell off’n dat stool; but I sot my knees 
together an’ braced my feet ’ginst de legs of de seat, 
settin’ my jaws hard enuff so she’d not hear my teeth 
er rattlin’. After she dun quit shakin’ an’ jerkin’, she 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


33 


sot back in dat chair as stiff an’ rigid as dat iron poker ; 
den she ’gun to talk in er deep, hollow .voice what 
sounded lak hit wuz cornin’ ont’n de ground. 

“ d see spirits all ’round yer hade,’ she said. 

“I sho’ did feel squirmy, but I knowed she wuz er 
lyin’, kase I couldn’t see nothin’ but er lot er flies. 
Whilst de cold chills wuz er prancin’ up an’ down my 
back, she gived ernudder jerk an’ said dat she could 
see de ban’s of er lot er spirits stretched out all ’round 
my hade. I gived'* er quick glance over my shoulder 
to see ef dey wuz behind me, feelin’ jes’ lak I does 
when I’se* gittin’ in de bed-, in er dark room, erf raid 
dat something is er goin’ to grab me by de foot. You 
knows how dat feelin’ is, honey, kase I’se heard you 
say many er time dat you alius runned an’ jumped in 
de bed arter you dun turned de light out, erfraid dat 
something wuz er gwine to grab you by de foot ef 
you didn’t hurry. 

“ ‘I sees de spirit of er little chile what died er long 
time ergo’, said de gypsy woman, ‘an’ dere’s de spirit 
of yer fust husban’ pintin’ its finger at you.’ 

“Soon as she said dat I told her dat I never had but 
de one husban’, an’ dat he wuz outside, waitin’ his 
turn to git in; den she ’gun to jerk an’ twitch ergin, 
sayin’ dat de spirits wuz gittin’ kinder mixed by hav- 
in’ so many people nigh de tent. Den she axed me ef 
some of de ones what wuz on de outside hadn’t bin 
married an’ lost dere husban’s, an’ I told her ’bout 
Sis’ Polly’s husban’ gittin’ kilt in de gin press way 
back thirty years ergo. When she axed me what Sis’ 
Polly looked lak an’ how she wuz dressed, I told her 
dat she wuz er short, fat, yaller woman, wearin’ er 
red an’ black striped dress, an’ dat she wuz er wait- 
in’ outside, too. 

“ ‘I see de spirit of yer gran’mother, hoverin’ over 
yer lef’ shoulder,' she said. 

“I looked erround an’ flung my handkerchief over 
my lef’ shoulder, but I couldn’t see nothin’. When de 


34 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


gypsy seed what I did, she laffed an’ said dat de 
spirits wuz dere, but dat I couldn’t see ’em wid de 
naked eye — dat I could see ’em ef I went in er trance 
lak she wuz. 

“ ‘Er spirit tells me dat you’s got er lot er jewelry 
in yer bosom,’ said de fortune teller, pintin’ at me wid 
her short, fat finger. 

“I sho’ wuz ’sprised when she told me dat, kase sho’ 
enuff, I did have er breastpin, er gutta percha ring an’ 
ernudder ring made out’n red coral, what my po’ 
mother uster wear, what she gin me on her death 
bed, tellin’ me to alius keep hit to ’member her by. 
Yassum, hit *sho’ did beat my time how dat woman 
knowed I had dat snuff box hid in my bosom, wid all 
dat jewlry in hit, kase I hadn’fi told er soul ’bout hits 
bein’ dere. 

“ ‘Dere dey is — hoverin’ all ’round yer hade !’ she 
said, raisin’ her arm an’ makin’ motions wid hit. I 
’gim to git weak in de knees an’ de sweat jes’ broke 
out all over me, makin’ me feel lak I wanted to git 
out’n dat tent, into de fresh air. She must er seed 
dat I wuz frightened, kase she roused up an’ took my 
han’ in her’n, puttin’ er little smooth glass over de 
palm; den she ’gun to read my whole life, from de 
cradle to de grave. She told me er lot er things what 
wuz true, even tellin’ me ’bout de time when I stole 
er apron full of brown sugar from old missus when I 
wuz er little gal ; den she told me ’bout losin’ de twins 
an’ de little boy' what we named ’Lias, what et er 
hat full of green mountain plums an’ took congestion 
an’ died befo’ we could git de doctor from ’cross de 
river. She told me ’bout so many things what’s hap- 
pened. an’ all of ’em true, too, dat I laid erwake all 
night long, thinkin’ ’bout ’em an’ wonderin’ how dat 
gypsy knowed all dat. I’se er gwine back an’ have 
her tell my fortune over, kase I wants to ax her ’bout 
some things what I fur got erbout when I wuz dere 
Saturday night.” 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 35 

“You’ll simply be throwing your money away,” I 
remarked, 'for that woman doesn’t know half as much 
about your life as I do.” 

“Mebbe dat’s so,” answered Aunt Patience, putting 
some fresh logs on the fire, “but she sho’ does know er 
whole lot what is true. She told me ’zactly how old 
I is; how old I wuz when I got married; how many 
chillun I’se had an’ how many of ’em is er livin’ now, 
sayin’ dat I’se had er lot er trouble in my time, but 
dat my las’ days would be de happiest, an’ den she 
said dat I would have to be mighty careful, kase I wuz 
er gwine to cross water purty soon. Now dat’s ’zactly 
what me an’ Caleb has bin er plannin’ to do, kase we’se 
bin ’tendin’ to take er trip on de Betsy to Vidalia, on 
de udder side of de river from Natchez, fer to visit 
my daughter Eose, what’s er livin’ there. When I 
got up to go out my whole body wuz feelin’ kinder stiff, 
lak yer foot do when hit falls ersleep, an’ de gypsy 
’splained dat by sayin’ dat my heart wuz heatin’ fast 
an’ dat my blood wuz thin. 

“Sis’ Calline wuz de next one to go in de tent, but 
bless you, honey, she wuzn’t in dere no time till she 
corned er runnin’ out lak de old Nick wuz arter her. 
She paid de woman for er trance readin’, too, but de 
minute dat she told Sis’ Calline dat de spirits wuz all 
’round her, reachin’ out fer to shake han’s wid her, 
she got skeert an’ runned outside. We all tried to 
make her go back an’ let de gypsy finish, ’specially long 
as she dun paid her for goin’ in er trance, ’sides givin’ 
her er lot er butterbeans an’ red pepper, an’ eggs an’ 
er lot er dried sage, but Sis’ Calline ’lowed dat she 
wuz welcome to all she got, kase she didn’t want no 
old witch er callin’ de spirits ’round her hade less’n 
she could reach out an’ tech ’em wid her own han’s. 

“When hit corned Sis’ Polly’s turn to go in, she wuz 
dat skeert she could hardly walk, an’ when de gypsy 
pulled de curtains to one side, she ’gun to tremble 
so dat she could hardly hold dat young domineck 







I 



“ When hit corned 


f 

Sis’ Polly’s turn to go in.” 










i 


> 


s. 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


37 


rooster what she fetched to he'p pay for havin’ her 
fortune told. De woman took de rooster, puttin’ hit 
under de box what she had de candle er settin’ on, 
den she took de money an’ de canned cherries. When 
she went in de trance, rollin’ her eyes up at de top 
of de tent an’ ’gun to gurgle lak she wuz er stranglin’, 
de sweat broke out on Sis’ Polly jes’ lak it did on me. 

“ ‘Yer name is Aunt Polly,’ said de gypsy, an’ Aunt 
Polly nodded her hade, kase her tongue wuz glued 
to de roof of her mouth an’ she couldn’t move hit. 

‘‘ ‘You’s bin married befo’,’ said de gypsy woman, 
‘an’ yer fust husban’ wuz kilt in er accident in er 
gin press. I see his spirit now, hoverin’ over yer hade, 
an’ he’s mad at you, kase you married ergin after 
promisin’ him dat you wouldn’t.’ 

“De minute dat gypsy told Aunt Polly ’bout her 
husban’ being mad at her, ’count er gittin’ married 
ergin, she fell out’n de chair, upsettin’ de box what 
had de candle on hit, lettin’ de domineck rooster er- 
loose an’ makin’ de tent dark as pitch, an’ we poured 
mofe’n one bucket full er water on her hade befo’ we 
could fetch her ’round. When she corned to, she ’lowed 
dat de gypsy woman wuz in league wid de debbil, an’ 
said dat she wouldn’t have nothin’ mo’ to do wid her,, 
kase er witch an’ er black cat wuz two things dat she 
didn’t had no use for. 

“By dis time de udder wimmin wuz too skeert to 
have dere fortunes told in er trance, so de gypsy took 
what dey brunged an’ jes read dere palms an’ told 
dere fortunes wid de cards, tellin’ ’em how dey could 
git rich; how dey could find er lot er gold ef dey 
looked in de right place fer hit; how dey could git 
even wid people what hadn’t treated ’em right, an’ 
how dey could tell ef er pusson loved ’em. 

“When hit corned Caleb’s turn to go in, he wanted 
to see her go in er trance, but he didn’t know how to 
manage hit when she told him dat she didn’t go in 
er trance fer less’n two dollars. I cautioned Caleb 


38 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

not to give her dat dollar what Marse Albert gived 
him fer drivin’ him to Natchez one dark night, but 
he finally ’greed to give her de dollar an’ de rest in 
corn, he ’greein’ to go back to de house an’ fetch de 
corn after supper. When she got well in de trance an’ 
’gun to jerk an’ twitch an’ gurgle lak she wuz tryin’ 
to swallow something what wouldn’t go down her 
throat, she told Caleb dat de spirit of his brudder 
Ike wuz wantin’ to talk wid him, but couldn’t. Caleb 
’lows dat he did feel his brudder Ike tech him on de 
back of de neck wid his cold, clammy ban’s; den de 
gypsy told him dat he wuz er gwine to have er mighty 
narrow ’scape from drownin’, but dat de spirit of 
his brudder would stan’ by kn’ save him. 

'' ‘Dere’s er spirit over yer hade now, wid some 
kind of er message,’ said de woman, rollin’ her eyes 
an’ ’tendin’ lak she wuz tryin’ to read de message. She 
said dat de writin’ wuz kinder faint an’ she couldn’t 
hardly make out what hit wuz, but dat hit said some- 
thing ’bout Caleb bein’ married twice befo’ he died. 
She said dat de spirit wanted to ’vise him to go mighty 
slow, sayin’ dat de second marriage wuz to be er 
miserable one for him, an’ dat his second wife would 
make hit so hot fer him dat he’d be glad to die to git 
shet of her. 

“ ‘Now ax me any question you like an’ I’ll answer 
hit while I’m in de trance,’ she said to Caleb. 

“Caleb wuz dat rattled dat he couldn’t think what 
to ax her, so he cleared his throat an’ says : ‘What side 
of de river is Natchez onf 

“Now, Miss Sammie, you knows dat fool nigger’s 
bin goin’ up to Natchez all his life, an’ he knows as 
well as anybody dat hit’s on de right han’ side goin’ 
up, but he wuz dat skeert dat he don’t ’member now 
which side she told him hit wuz on. De idea of Caleb 
spendin’ dat dollar an’ all dat corn, fer to ask dat 
woman er fool question lak dat, an’ me needin’ er 
new pair of shoes so bad! Hit sho’ do beat my time. 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 39 

but I ’low he’ll know which side his bread is buttered 
on when he gits dat second wife.” 

'‘Do you really think he would want to marry again, 
as old as he is, if you were to die ?” I asked. 

"Why, Lawd, yes, Miss Sammie,” she answered, 
laughing heartily. 'De older er nigger is when his 
wife dies, de bigger fool he is, an’ I ’lows dat my 
tracks wouldn’t be washed erway from erround dat 
cabin befo’ Caleb would be er sittin’ up to some right 
young gal what’s young enuff to be his gran’daughter, 
an’ I wouldn’t be ’sprised ef he wuzn’t wearin’ er red 
necktie an’ gain’ to dances in less’n er week after I wuz 
buried, ’stead er goin’ to chuch an’ to prayer meetin’. 
Yassum, dat’s so, an’ ef I wuz to die to-night an’ he’d 
be free to marry ergin, I ’lows dere wouldn’t be er 
bigger fool nigger on dis plantashun den he’d be, even 
ef he had to sell our old milk cow to git money to buy 
him er new suit er clothes an’ er stovepipe hat an’ low- 
cut shoes. I’se told Caleb more’n once dat he’d have 
er hard time findin’ er wife what would wuck for him 
lak I has, but he’s lak all de rest of de niggers — ^plumb 
foolish ’bout de young gals.” 

At this juncture Aunt Patience was interrupted by 
one of the women on the plantation entering the 
kitchen. 

"Aunt Patience,” she cried, "I wish you’d come out 
here an’ whip dat Christopher Napoleon, kase he’s got 
er nigger-shooter an’ he shot my John Henry in de 
eye wid er chanyberry. I don’t lak to strike him, kase 
he’s your gran’son, but ef he don’t ’have hissef an’ 
let my boy erlone, dere sho’ will be trouble.” 

"Never mind, Sis’ Jenkins, I’ll tend to dat black 
rascal,” answered Aunt Patience, going out into the 
yard, where her young hopeful was perched on top 
of the woodpile. 

"You Christopher Napoleon!” she shouted, shaking 
her fist at the little darkey, "ef you don’t throw dat 
popgun erway an’ stop shootin’ dem chillun’s eyes out. 


40 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


I’se er gwine to skin yon erlive, boy. Ton’s already 
got mos’ of de chillnn on dis plantashnn goin’ ’ronnd 
wid one eye shet, an’ ef I ketches yon shootin’ at 
’em ergin, I’ll break er limb off’n er tree an’ beat yon 
to death. Fo’ Gawd, Miss Sammie, dat boy’s ennff 
to drive anybody crazy, kase he ain’t more’n onter one 
mess of debbilment till he’s in ernndder.” 



A Rabbit Hunt on Briers Plantation 


Good morning, everybody, a Happy New Year to 
all!” I shouted as I entered the kitchen on the Briers 
plantation on a bright, crisp New Year’s morning. 

“Same to you, honey, same to you!” replied half a 
dozen of the servants, engaged in their morning duties. 

“Why, honey, you’s lookin’ as bright an’ happy as dat 
red bird what’s bin er singin’ all mornin’ in de big post 
oak back of de kitchen,” remarked Aunt Patience, who 
was mixing a bowl of dressing which she intended to 
use in stuffing the New Year’s turkey. 

“Yes, I do feel happy, but I’m tired and very sleepy,” 
I answered, taking a seat in the rocker which Lucetta 
placed in front of the open fireplace. “Tell me what 
happened last night, for I was so frightened I could 
not sleep. First, I was awakened soon after retiring, 
by the slamming of the big gate and the tramping of 
feet on the veranda ; then by the sound of strange voices 
in the room adjoining mine, and about 4 o’clock this 
morning I was again aroused by the dogs barking as 
though they were tearing some poor soul to pieces. 
What was the matter — someone trying to steal the 
chickens ? 

“La, honey, wuz you dat frightened?” asked Aunt 
Patience, bursting into a fit of laughter, in which the 
others joined. “I ’lowed Marse Prank dun told ev’ry- 
body ’bout dat big rabbit hunt what he an’ Marse 
Albert an’ Marse Rob has bin er plannin’ for New 
Year’s. Yassum, dey’s bin er plottin’ for more’n er 
month fer to have er rabibt hunt — de biggest hunt, 
honey, what’s ever bin belt on Briers, an’ ef dey don’t 
fetch home er wagon-load of rabbits, hit’ll be kase 
dere powder gives out. ]\Iarse Rob’s bin er tellin’ 
Marse Frank how lie uster make de fur fly from de 


42 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


Molly cottontails when he wuz er boy, so dey ’ranged 
fer to have Mister Will Dicks an’ Mister Pardee an’ 
Cap’n Rumble come down from Natchez an’ spend er 
week here, huntin’ rabbits, kase dey sho’ do need thin- 
nin’ out. All of ’em uster go rabbit huntin’ when dey 
wuz boys togethel*, so Marse Frank ’lowed dat hit 
would seem lak old times to git up ernudder hunt an’ 
see which one could bring down de mos’ game. De 
folks from Natchez wuz due on de Betsy yistiddy, but 
she runned on er san’bar ’rectly after leavin’ dere an’ 
she didn’t git here till after 10 o’clock las’ night. Ef 
you had er bin out here in de kitchen dis mornin’ ’bout 
4 o’clock, you sho’ would er seed er sight, kase all de 
dogs on de plantashun corned er-runnin’ when dey heard 
Caleb’s old horn Mowin’ toot, toot, t-o-o-t, an’ dey wuz 
so mixed up dat yer couldn’t tell one from ’tother.” 

“That is indeed strange — I wonder why nothing was 
said about the hunt in my presence,” I remarked as- 
tonished at what Aunt Patience had said. 

“I knows de reason dey didn’t tell you — Marse Frank 
wuz erf raid dat you’d want to go wid ’em, an’ you 
sho’ would er caught yer death er cold, chile, gittin’ 
up dat early,” explained Aunt Patience, as her busy 
hands kept time with her tongue. “When I went out 
in de yard, fer to put de baskets filled wid lunch in de 
wagon, dere wuz houn’s an’ setters an’ fox-terriers an’ 
p’inters, an’ all kinds er dogs, an’ I couldn’t hardly 
walk widout steppin’ on ’em. ’Lias an’ Uncle Jack 
had charge of de wagon what wuz to follow an’ fetch 
in de game what dey kilt, an’ Caleb an’ Brudder Jack- 
son had charge of de dogs, an’ I tell you, honey, hit sho’ 
wuz er sight to see all dem dogs er yelpin’ an’ howlin’ 
an’ barkin’ fit to kill dereselves, kase dey wuz all ex- 
cited an’ anxious fer to git started on de chase, an’ 
ef you had er bin on de back po’ch, you could er heard 
Caleb’s old dog Music wid his wow-oo, wow-oo, wow- 
0 - 0 , after dey wuz er mile erway from de house.” 

“Well, I am real sorry I did not know about it, so 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


43 


that I could have seen them start,” I said, “but I will 
catch them when they return and have them tell me 
all about it.” 

“I wants to be here when dey comes in, too,” con- 
tinued Aunt Patience, “an’ see how many rabbits dey 
has, kase dey’s bin powerful thick of late, an’ I knows 
dey ’ll git er lot of ’em. I heard Brudder Jackson tellin’ 
Marse Al'bert yistiddy dat dey wuz er tearin’ through 
de cotton fields an’ ehtin’ up all de cabbage leaves what 
we’se bin er throwin’ out to de chickens, an’ he said 
dat sometimes dey’d huddle up under er bunch er grass 
an’ wouldn’t move till he mos’ stepped on ’em.” 

When the sun was sending its last bright rays across 
the muddy waters of the Mississippi river, before sink- 
ing out of sight behind the huge live oaks and cypress 
that formed its western border, I heard the horns of 
the hunters from the rear of the plantation, as the 
wagon took a road that wound through the cotton fields 
that were now stripped of their snowy fleece. Entp- 
ing the kitchen a few minutes later, I encountered ’Lias 
bearing a huge armful of slaughtered rabbits. 

“Where in the world did you get ali those rabbits? 
Did you trap them ?” I asked, as the faithful old darkey 
deposited at least three dozen on the kitchen table. 

“Why, Miss Sammie, dis ain’t de ha’f of what we’se 
got in de wagon,” he answered, wiping his forehead 
with a red bandana. “Dat wagon wuz mos’ full when 
we got through huntin’, but we’se bin er leavin’ ’em 
at de quarters as we corned by ’em, givin’ ’em erway 
to ev’rybody, I’se er gwine to sell de ones what Marse 
Frank gives me to de steward on de Betsy when she 
comes up here ter-morrow.” 

“How much will he pay you for them?” I inquired. 

“Well,” answered ’Lias, “ef I cleans an’ dresses ’em 
nice, dey’ll ’low me er dollar an’ er half er dozen fer 
’em,' an’* I ’lows fer to sell at least fo’ dozen.” 

“Fo’ dozen?” exclaimed Aunt Patience and Aunt 
Tilda in one breath, “You lyin’ nigger, you knows dat 


44 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

you won’t have no fo’ dozen fer yonr share of dem 
rabbits. You’d better stick to de truth, nigger, kase 
lak as not Miss Sammie’ll put what you tells her ’bout 
de hunt in de Natchez paper, an’ Mister Will Dicks 
an’ Cap’n Rumble sho’ will ketch you in er lie.” 

‘‘Ef you alls will keep yer mouths shet an’ lemme 
erlone. I’ll tell Miss Sammie de Gawd’s truth ’bout this 
hunt,” answered ’Lias, bringing in another armful of 
rabbits, five or six quail and three wild turkeys. '‘Ef 
she wants to put what I tells her in de paper, dat’ll be 
all right, kase I wuz right dere wid de white folks all 
day, an’ dey kin see dat I don’t tell no lies. Marse 
Frank don’t need to be ershamed of dis day’s hunt, I’m 
here to tell you, kase dey dun mighty good shootin’ an’ 
dey’s all tickled over de success' what dey had — wuss’n 
er lot of schoolboys huntin’ on er Saturday.” 

“From the looks of things, you had a very success- 
ful hunt.” 

“Yessum, indeed we did,” answered ’Lias, helping 
himself to a couple of cookies lying on the end of the 
table. “I’se bin on many er hunt in my days, but dis 
sho’ wuz de fastest one what ever happened on dis ole 
plantashun. Marse Rob an’ Mister Will Dicks both 
had new guns an’ wuz er tryin’ to see which one could 
kill de mos’ rabbits, an’ I’se tellin’ you de Gawd’s truth, 
Miss Sammie, when I tells you dat I got de agie when 
I seed Marse Rob lif’ dat gun of his’n an’ kill two rab- 
bits at one shoot, as dey crossed each other.” 

“Now, jes’ listen to dat lyin’ nigger!” exclaimed 
Aunt Patience, coming over to the window near where 
I was sitting. 

“Hit’s de Gawd’s truth. Aunt Patience,” protested 
’Lias, vehemently, “an’ ef Miss Sammie doubts my 
word, all she has to do is to ask Marse Rob when he 
comes in to supper. She can’t help but b’lieve hit 
when she hears hit from his own mouth, kase Miss 
Sammie knows dat Marse Rob wouldn’t tell no lie fer 
nobody. When we reached de edge of de swamp ’bout 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 45 

daylight, I knowed dat we’d have good luck, kase hit 
looked lak ev’ry kind er game you ever heard erbout 
had bin on dress p’rade, judgin’ from de tracks what 
dey lef’ in de soft mud. We hadn’t more’n struck de 
edge of dat six-acre brier patch what we. wuz headed 
fur, den de dogs had de rabbits er runnin’ lak lightnin’, 
an’ dere wuz times when we couldn’t tell whether we 
wuz er shootin’ at de dogs or de rabbits. Eight in de 
midst of de shootin’, up flew er covey of quail, an ” 

“Go slow now, ’Lias, go slow,” admonished Aunt Pa- 
tience, “kase Miss Sammie’s liable to put all dat in de 
paper.” 

“Yassum, up flew er covey of quail,” continued ’Lias, 
“an’ befo’ I could raise my gun to my shoulder, Marse 
Rob dun fired both barrels at ’em, drappin’ five an’ 
breakin’ de wing of ernudder one what de dogs runned 
down. Marse Frank an’ Mister Will Dicks cotild er 
shot lots of dem quail, kase dey flew right over dere 
hades, but dey said dey wuz after rabbits an’ dey 
wuzn’t er gwine to waste dere ammunition on nothin’ 
else, but dey sho’ did furgit erbout de rabbits yt^hen 
de dogs scared up er flock of wild turkeys in de edge 
of de timber close by de river bank. Mos’ ev’rybody 
fired four or five shots erpiece at ’em, but wid all dat 
shootin’ dey only brung down two — one wid er broken 
wing an’ one what Uncle Jack cut de hade off whilst I 
helt hit. After dey dun got outer range of our shot- 
guns, IVfarse Rob grabbed his rifle an’ took ernudder 
shot at ’em, ■ drappin’ er big, fat gobbler what had er 
beard more’n ten inches long, makin’ three what we 
got altogether. 

“Soon as dem turkeys wuz out er sight, de dogs 
runned six or seven rabbits in er brush pile, an’ as fas’ 
as one would come out, crack would go er gun an’ 
over went Mister Rabbit, not one out of de lot gittin’ 
erway. After we dun got all dere wuz in de brush 
pile, Marse Albert took out dat quart bottle of whisky 
what he alius carries when he goes huntin’, an’ after 


46 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


all de white folks had er drink, he giv what was lef 
to me an’ Uncle Jack. When Uncle Jack wuz raisin’ 
de bottle, to take what wuz left’, his old dog Lemon 
made er dash fer de brush an’ grabbed er cottontail 
what wuz hidin’ dere. Befo’ de dog could harm de 
rabbit. Uncle Jack snatched hit out’n Lemon’s mouth, 
an’ says to me: ‘Look, ’Lias; I’se er gwine to give dis 
here whisky to de rabbit an’ see what hibll do. Bein’ 
as hit’s squirrel whisky, maybe hit’ll clam er tree.’ I 
told him I’d hold de rabbit whilst he poured de w^hisky 
down hits throat, an’ you sho’ would er laffed ef you 
had er seed how dat rabbit pricked up his ears an’ 
sniffed — den he ’gun to scratch wid his claws an’ tried 
to break erloose. When Marse Albert an’ Mister Will 
Dicks corned over to whar we wuz, an’ dey seed Uncle 
Jack er-wrasslin’ wid dat drunken cottontail, dey all 
l-affedj an’ Marse Albert said: ‘Turn him erloose. Jack, 
an’ les’ see what he’ll do.’ De minute Uncle Jack sot 
dat rabbit on de ground, thinkin’ hit would head -fer er 
tree an’ clam hit, dat cottontail jes’ sat up on his hin’ 
legs, walked over to Brudder Jackson’s dog, an’ spit 
right square in his face.” 

“Look here, ’Lias,” exclaimed Aunt Patience, “ain’t 
I dun begged you to tell Miss Sammie nothin’ but de 
truth ’bout dat hunt? AinT you ershamed of yersef, 
standin’ dere an’ not knowin’ what minute de Lawd’s 
er gwine to parelize you fer lyin’ lak dat? You bet- 
ter be careful, nigger, kase you knows well ernuff dat 
dat rabbit never spit in dat dog’s face.” 

“Well,” replied ’Lias, “ef you alls don’t b’lieve what 
L say, all you’se got to do is to ask Marse Bob, or 
Marse Frank, or Marse Albert, kase dey wuz all er- 
standin’ dere an’ dey seed him do hit.” 

“I know^s what’s de matter wid dat nigger — ^lie’s got 
some of dat squirrel whisky under his skin, an’ de 
truth ain’t in him,” cried Aunt Tilda, reaching for ’Lias’ 
ear and giving it a good twist. “De idea of you er- 
standin’ dere, tellin’ Miss Sammie dat de rabbit spit 

/ 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


47 


in de dog’s face, an’ dat Marse Kob killed two wid one 
shot! Yon’d better go home an’ go to bed, kase dat 
liquor sho’ has gone to your hade.” 

‘‘I wouldn’t er b’lieved hit myself ef I hadn’t er seen 
hit wid my own eyes,” explained ’Lias, “but any of de 
white folks will tell you dat hit’s so. When I wuz er- 
cornin’ ’cross de patch an’ I runned into er bunch of 
seven rabbits, I got de agie an’ ” 

“What do you mean by the ague?” I asked. 

“Dat’s when you gits so frightened dat yer can’t pull 
de trigger of de gun,” explained ’Lias, taking a big 
bite of gingerbread that Lucetta had given him. “When 
I wuz er-crossin’ de patch, wonderin’ which one of de 
white folks wuz er gwine to kill de mos’ rabbits, I 
runned square onto er lot of cottontails, bunched up . 
lak er passel er pigs at de feedin’ trough. I raised my 
gun an’ wuz er gwine to fire into de bunch, but my ban’ 
trembled so dat I couldn’t press de trigger no more’n 
I could fiy widout wings. Dere wuz seven of ’em. 


“Lawd, Miss Sammie, don’t yer b’lieve er word dat 
nigger tells you,” cried Aunt Patience, putting several 
large chunks of wood in the stove, “kase he’s bin er- 
drinkin’ so much of dat squirrel whisky dat hit’s plumb 
turned his hade. De las’ time he wuz on er hunt wid 
Marse Albert he corned back an’ went in de stable an’ 
laid dere, in one of de stalls, for two days befo’ we 
knowed whar he wuz at, an’ de fust thing you know, 
he’ll be er-tryin’ to make you b’lieye dat de rabbits 
wuz er-flyin’ through de air lak de birds do 1” 

“Yassum, dere wuz seven of ’em, all in one bunch,” 
continued ’Lias, “an’ when I got so dat I could pull 
de trigger — dat gun kicked so hard dat hit knocked 
me clear off my feet! I reckon dat Marse Rob mus’ 
er had er han’ in loadin’ dat gun, kase hit never kicked 
lak dat befo’ an’ my shoulder is dat so’ now dat I 
can’t hardly tech hit. Yassum, de white folks, has de 
agie jes’ lak de niggers do, kase Marse Rob wuz er- 


48 


DOWX OIs THE OLD PLANTATION. 


tellin’ Mister Will Dicks dis mornin’ ’bout de time 
when he shot his fust deer, savin’ dat he wuz er- 
tremblin’ so dat he corned mighty nigh shakin’ de load 
oiit’n de gun. I ’member de time he ’fers to, kase I 
wuz wid him on dat hunt, ’rectly after de war wuz over, 
when deer wuz more plentiful ’round, here den dey has 
bin since, kase de niggers an’ de po’ white trash wuz 
li?ard up an’ didn’t have no money fer to buy powder 
wid. 

“Marse Rob had jes’ corned back from servin’ in Fen- 
ner’s batter^^, an’ de deer wuz so thick on de planta- 
shun dat dey uster git in de cornfields an’ mow de 
corn down,- an’ sometimes dey uster come right up to 
de stable an’ eat de hay out’n de cribs. Marse Rbb 
had his ole Harper’s Ferry rifle, loaded wid «er big 
charge of powder an’ buckshot, so we went down in 
er field an’ sot in one corner fer to watch for ’em, an’ 
thin ’em out. Purty soon he heard something walkin’ 
on de dry leaves, an’ when he looked up he seed seven 
or eight big bucks cornin’ right towards us, pawin’ de 
ground an’ playin’ lak young kittens. Two or three of' 
’em had horns on ’em dat looked lak Miss Genie’s big 
rockin’ chair when hits turned upside down, an’ when 
we seed ’em er-comin’ towards whar we wuz hidin’, 
Marse Rob’s heart jumped up in his throat, mos’ chokin’ 
him; d6n his teeth ’gun to rattle so dat he had to 
double his tongue up in de back of his mouth, to keep 

from bitin’ hit clean off. When one . Look here, 

Christopher Napoleon, ef you don’t stop er-mockin’ me. 
I'll take you out in de yard an’ wear you out, boy! 

'‘When one old buck walked up to Marse Rob, actin’ 
lak he wuz er gwine to bite him, he lowered de gun- 
an’ blazed erway, puttin’ fo’ pounds of shot in dat 
buck’s shoulder an’ drappin’ him in his tracks. Marse 
Rob wuz er-shakin’ so dat he couldn’t hardly cut de 
deer’s throat, an’ I couldn’t he’p him any, kase I never 
could look er deer in de face an’ stab him.” 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


49 


“About how many rabbits do you think they got to- 
day?” I asked. 

“De Lawd only knows, Miss Sammie,” answered ’Lias, 
“kase we wuz er shootin’ ’em an’ loadin’ ’em in de. 
wagon till hit wuz mos’ ha’f full. Fo’ of dem Sandy 
Creek niggers wemt er huntin’ erbout er week befo’ 
Christmus an’ one of ’em told me dat dey shot ninety- 
three rabbits in one day, but dat wuzn’t er patch to 
what we kilt. Me an’ Uncle Jack killed more’n thirty 
dat I knows of, ’sides two quail an’ er wild turkey 
what I shot on de wing. Dat turkey corned purty nigh 
gittin’ me in trouble, kase he hadn’t more’n hit de 
groun’ befo’ er white man, what lives up de bayou, 
corned er rimnin’ up an’ said dat wuz his turkey — dat 
he shot him wid er rifle an’ dat he wuz er failin’ when 
I blazed loose at hit, but I knowed dat my gun wuz 
de one what brung him down, an’ IMarse Eob ’vised me 
not to give de turkey up less’n de man could prove dat 
he shot him wid er rifle. Dat man wuz mad kase I 
wouldn’t let him walk off wid my turkey, but Marse 
Rob an’ Marse Albert backed me up, an’ dey both 
proved by de buckshot what wuz in hit dat I wuz de 
one dat owned de turkey. De man ’lowed dat he’d 
make hit hot for me ef he ever ketched me huntin’ or 
fishin’ ’round his place, but 

He’ll have to be mighty swift on his pegs 
Ef he beats dis nigger er-movin’ his legs.” 

Tossing his brimless old hat as high as the ceiling 
and laughing loudly as he caught it, ’Lias ran down 
the back steps and disappeared in the darkness of the 
night, singing: 

“Oh, Molly Hare, what yer doin’ there, 
Running through de cotton patch. 

Hard as you kin tare.” 


Aunt Patience and the Ku Klux Klan 


The soft, dreamy atmosphere of a long summer twi- 
light wrapped the famous old Briers plantation in 
pea’ceful serenity; a breeze, cool and sweet, swept 
through the old-fashioned kitchen with its white sanded 
floor, where Aunt Patience and Lucetta were busily en- 
gaged in washing and putting away the dishes from 
the evening meal. As the hoot of an owl was heard 
and the twulight fast deepened into darkness, strange 
voices arose in the woods as insect creatures crept out 
of their shadowy resting places and tuned up for the 
great orchestra of the night. 

“Come right in dis house an’ stop makin’ dat dog 
bark so! Don’t you know dat de Klu Klux’ll git you 
ef yer goes out’n de house after hit gits dark? One of 
dem Klu Klux ketched er nigger boy over on Glass- 
cock’s island las’ week, an’ dat boy ain’t never bin 
heard of sence. I’se dun warned you, chile, so ef dey 
gits dere clammy ban’s on you, yer ain’t got nobody to 
blame but yerself.” 

So spoke Aunt Patience, one of the faithful old cooks 
on the plantation, her remarks being addressed to a 
pickaninny who stood just outside the kitchen door, 
playing with one of the numerous dogs to be found at 
all times on the premises. As soon as Aunt Patience 
mentioned the Ku Klux, the darky immediately hur- 
ried inside and crept upon the logs of wood piled in 
one corner of the kitchen. His actions clearly indicated 
that he was thoroughly frightened. 

“Lawd, honey, how you scairt me !” exclaimed Aunt 
Patience, as I entered the kitchen unexpectedly upon 
hearing her talk about the Ku Klux. “You sho’ do 
look lak er ghost in dat white dress, an’ when I turned 
’round I thought you wuz one of dem Klu Klux.” 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


51 


'‘What do you know about the Ku Klux? Don't you 
know that the organization has long since disbanded?" 
I asked. 

“Of course I knows hit, Miss Sammie, but I jes’ tells 
de chillun dat de Klu Kluxll git 'em, fer to skeer 'em 
into behavin' an' keepin' out'n de long grass after hit 
gits dark, kase de grass am full of de pizenest snakes 
dat creeps in dis part of the country. No longer’n la?' 
week Sis' Calline's youngest boy wuz bit by a big rattler 
what wuz curled up outside de cabin in de chimley cor- 
ner, an' dat wuz er snake fer you, I'm here to tell you. 
Yassum, dat snake had twelve rattles an' er button, an’ 
wuz longer den any hoe handle on dis plantashun. 
Dat’s his skin what Marse Albert’s got outside, bangin’ 
up 'longside de smokehouse, an’ de cold chills runs up 
an’ down by back ev’ry time I pass where he is, no 
matter ef he is dade." 

“But I was talking about the Ku Klux, not about 
snakes," I interrupted. 

“Yassum, I knows dere ain’t no Klu Klux 'round here 
now, lak dere wuz 'rectly after de war wuz over, an' 
I'se powerful glad dere ain't, but lemme tell you, honey, 
dat I 'members de time when dis here whole country 
wuz full of ’em. When old missus took all her chillun 
an’ me an' yer old black mammy an’ went up to Hunts- 
ville, Alabama, fer to stay till she got strong an’ well 
after she dun 'covered from er long spell of typhoid 
fever, we runned 'cross more Klu Klux up dere den 
dey ever wuz here.” 

“Who were the Ku Klux and what d4d they look 
like?" I questioned, by way of leading Aunt Patience 

out. . ^ ^ T 

“Well, I tell yer, honey, some said dat dey wuz de 
ghosts of our old marsters what fell on de battlefield 
durin’ de war, but I ain’t never found out to dis day 
who dey wuz. Dey warn’t no livin’ bein's, I knows 
dat kase I’se dun bin close to ’em an’ no human pusson 
could ever drink fifteen gallons of water at one time 


52 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


an’ den ’low dat he wuz thirsty, an’ dat’s what one of 
’em dun one night when er passel of ’em w’'as passin^ 
long here, crossin’ de plantashun. Ef I lives to be er 
hundred years old, I’ll never furgit dat night.” 

“They weren’t after you, were they ?” 

“No, indeed, honey; dey wuz crossin’ de plantashun,. 
headin’ fer Glasscock’s Island, an’ dey stopped at our 
cabin fer to git some water to drink. Me an’ Caleb 
had jes’ laid down an’ wuz ’bout half asleep when we 
hears de dogs er barkin’ outside. Caleb ’lowed dat 
some of de po’ white trash what lived ’round here in 
dem days wuz after his speckled domineck rooster what 
he bought from er man on a flatboat, so he gits down 
his gun an’ goes to de frontdoor. When he stepped 
outside, what yer think he seed ?” 

“Somebody running off with his rooster?” 

“No, indeed, honey, but er whole passel of dem Klu 
Klux on dere bosses ! Dey didn’t make no noise lak er 
boss do when he’s travelin’ ’long de road at night, kase 
dey had gunnysacks fastened to de hoofs of de bosses, 
an’ dey rid right up to de cabin lak dey wuz walkin’ 
on hay. I wuz behind Caleb wid er candle in my ban’, 
an’ when I seed dat dey wuz de Klu Klux, I snatched 
dat gun out’n his han’ an’ flunged hit in one corner of 
de cabin.” 

“How many were there in the party?” 

“Lawd, honey, I couldn’t tell yer, but hit looked lak 
dere wuz er hundred of ’em, an’ maybe more, an’ dey 
had de cabin s’rounded on all fo’ sides. De leader got 
down off’n his boss an’ walked up to de door, inakin’ 
er sign dat he wuz thirsty an’ wanted er drink er water. 
Caleb had drawed er fresh bucket of water from de 
well befo’ he went to bed, an’ I’m here to tell you dat 
he didn’t lose no time findin’ dat bucket. When he 
held out de gourd to de man, thinkin’ he would drink 
some an’ pass de bucket to de men on de bosses, dat 
man turned de bucket rip an’ drained hit in no time, 
motionin’ fer Caleb to git him some more. I knows 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 53^ 

yer can’t hardly believe me, but I’m tellin’ yer de 
Gawd’s truth, Miss Sammie, when I tells yer dat dat 
man emptied three buckets of water, one after de 
udder, an’ ” 

“Hold .on. Aunt Patience ; surely not three buckets. 
You mean three dippers, do you not?” 

“Lawd, honey, dat man emptied dem three buckets 
lak dey wuz so many thimbles, an’ den he spoke de 
onliest words dat I ever heard one of ’em say. After 
he dun drained de las’ drop out’n de third bucket, ho 
handed hit back to Caleb, sayin’ : ‘Dat’s de fust water 
I’se tasted sence I wuz shot on de battlefield at Manas- 
sas — fetch me some more.’ 

“De wind what wuz er cornin’ in through de door 
’most blowed me over when I seed dat man drinh, all 
dat water wid my own eyes, an’ I tells you dat me an’ 
Caleb drawed er awful long breath when we seed him 
git on his hoss an’ motion fer de udders to follow him. 
Neither me nor Caleb closed our eyes dat night, kase 
we didn’t know what minute dem ghosts might all come 
back an’ want more water, so we jes’ knealt down an’ 
prayed an’ prayed till de roosters ’gun to crow fer day- 
light. 

“When I corned up to de house Here, fer to start 
de fires an’ cook breakfast, I didn’t say nothin’ to no- 
body ’bout what happened, kase I ’lowed de folks would 
say somethin’ ’bout ’em at de table, ef dey had er seen 
’em. When breakfust wuz over an’ nobody said er 
w'-ord ’bout de Klu Klux bein’ out, I called Marse Al- 
bert in de kitchen an’ asked him ef he heard anybody 
passin’ de house durin’ de night. He said dat ’long 
’bout midnight he heard de dogs makin’ er racket in 
de front yard, but he thought dey wuz er barkin’ at de 
moon, so he turned over an’ went to sleep ergin. When 
he saw dat I wuz all in er tremble an’ my teeth er 
chatterin’, he ask me what wuz de matter, so I up an’ 
told him ’bout de Klu Klux cornin’ to our cabin. When 
I spoke erbout de ghost what drunk all daf water an’' 


54 pOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

den wanted more, he laffed an’ said: 'You needn’t be 
’fraid of de Kin Klux as long as you lives on Briers 
plantashun; dey won’t meddle wid you ef you clucks 
lak er hen an’ gives ’em plenty of water.’ 

“Bat was de fust time dat I ever seed de Klu Klux, 
but when me an’ Aunt Mary wuz up at Huntsville wid 
yer mother, soon after de war wuz over, dere wuz er 
lot of ’em ’round dat place. I ’members one Saturday 
night, whilst we wuz at de hotel, dat er lot of ’em come 
into de town, ridin’ on big black bosses what had dere 
feet tied up in gunny sacks an’ white sheets over de 
saddles,* wid holes cut in de sheets fer de bosses eyes. 
All of ’em had on big, black robes what almost touched 
de ground, an’ some of de ghosts had two heads. Ev’ry 
one*! of ’em had er gun an’ er ’volver, an’ some of ’em 
had nothin’ but skulls fer heads, wid big fiery eyes er 
shinin’ out’n de holes where de real eyes oughter bin. 
De fust we saw of ’em was when somebody blowed er 
whistle an’ dey come er ridin’ down de street widout 
er word bein’ said by nobody, haltin’ in front of de 
hotel where we wuz er stoppin’. 

“De minute de Klu Klux entered de town, de nig- 
gers lit out fer de camps where de Yankee soldiers 
wuz, shoutin’ an’ er prayin’ an’ er beggin’ de soldiers 
fer to save ’em. I reckon dat me an’ Aunt Mary wuz 
de onliest black wimmen in dat town when de Klu Klux 
halted, but we wuzn’t ’fraid of ’em, kase yer mother 
stood by us an’ said dat dey wouldn’t do us no harm 
as long as we \vuz wud her. 

“When de leader blew er whistle an’ held up his han’ 
fer ’em to stop, dere wuz er lot er Yankee soldiers 
marchin’ up an’ down de street, wid dere guns loaded, 
l)ut dey didn’t fire no shots at de Klu Klux, kase dey 
knowed better’n to do dat. After dey dun halted an’ 
de leaders wuz in er group, talkin’ low to demselves, 
here comes er whole regiment of Yankee troops from 
de camps on de double quick. When dey got nigh de 
hotel an’ dey seed dat de Klu Klux wasn’t harmin’ no- 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 55 

body, but jes’ sittin’ dere on dere black bosses, makin’ 
signs to each other lak de deaf an’ dumb folks do, de 
general rode up in front of his troops an’ faced dat 
band of Klu Klux. De soldiers even brunged in some 
cannons an’ had ’em all ready to shoot, but de Klu Klux 
didn’t run when dey seed ’em — dey jes’ sat dere on dere 
bosses lak dey wuz er itchin’ fer somebody to start er 
fight. Purty soon de cap’n of de Klu Klux brought his 
’volver up ’longside his head, an’ every one of his men 
made de same sign, lak dey wuz answerin’ de salute. 
De Yankee gen’ral looked at. ’em erwhile, den he puts 
up his sword an’ told de soldiers to go on back to dere 
camps, kase de Klu Klux wuzn’t creatin’ na fuss an’ 
he ’lowed dat he had no right fer to fire on ’em. 

“De Klu Edux stayed right dere till de soldiers wuz 
out o’ sight; den de leader blowed er whistle, which 
wuz answered by er thousan’ more, den dey rode off 
towards de woods where dey corned from. Me an’ 
Aunt Mary an’ yer mother watched ’em whilst dey 
wuz in front of de hotel, but we didn’t follow to see 
where dey went, no indeed. * 

“Caleb thinks to dis day dat de one what drunk all 
dat water at our cabin dat night wuz de spirit of old 
Marsa Gordon, kase when he wuz er livin’ he wuz dat 
mean an’ stingy wid his money dat he wouldn’t hardly 
drink no water. Ev’rybody ’lowed dat he wuz de stin- 
giest man in Mississippi, an once, when he went up 
to Natchez, fer to git er pair er glasses, de man what 
’zamined his eyes found dat one of ’em wuz purty nigh 
out. He told Marsa Gordon so, an’ said he’d fix him 
er nice pair of readin’ glasses for two- dollars. Do you 
think dat man bought ’em? Indeed he didn’t, honey, 
he jes’ told dat eye doctor dat he would wear de old 
glasses what he had on an’ let de bad eye go out; 
den when he couldn’t see out’n hit no more he’d only 
have to buy er glass fer one eye. He wuz de stingiest 
man I ever laid my eyes on, an’ he never would er 
drunk no three buckets of water ef he had to pay fer 


56 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

At this juncture the little pickaninny, who had fallen 
asleep on the pile of wood, tumbled to the floor, yelling 
and clutching wildly at Aunt Patience’s dress. 

“What’s de matter wid you, chile? Can’t you roost 
on dat pile er wood widout failin’ off an’ scarin’ folks 
lak dat?” exclaimed Aunt Mary, giving the darkey a 
yank by the collar. 

“I reckon I wuz dreamin’, kase I thought de Klu 
Klux had me by de hair an’ wuz er draggin’ me through 
er cotton field,” answered Christopher Napoleon, caus- 
ing Lucetta and severaL of the other darkies to laugh 
heartily. 

“All you niggers git yer things on an’ come wid 
me,” said Aunt Mary, lighting a tin lantern and mak- 
ing ready to go to her cabin. “Make haste now, kase 
I’se gwine to git you chillun home befo’ de dew falls, 
fer de doctor wuz tellin’ Miss Genie day befo’ yis- 
tiddy dat de heavy dew is what alius makes you nig- 
gers have de chills an’ fever.” 

As Aunt Mary headed the procession and wended 
her way through the winding path that led to her 
cabin, I heard her admonishing the pickaninnies in this 
manner : 

“Noav you niggers keep out’n dat wet grass befo’ er 
snake bites yer, an’ you, John Henry, stop er pickin’ 
at Christopher Napoleon, makin’ him run out in dem 
weeds. Ef er snake bites yer, I’ll go right on an’ 
leave you here an’ let him swallow you, now you hear 
what I say. De fust thing you niggers know, de Edu 
Klux’ll ride up on dere bosses an’ carry you off to 
de woods — den yer old mammy won’t never see you no 
mo’. Dat looks lak ’em now, ridin’ ’long de road by 
de fence, cluckin’ lak er old hen wid er lot er young 
chickens, say in : ‘Kluck-kluck-kluck-Klu-Klux !’ ” 


Uncle Tom and the Widow Jenkins 


Come here, Aunt Patience, an’ see what er lot of 
bundles ’Lias is fetchin’ us,” *cried Aunt Tilda, one of 
the servants on the Briers plantation, as she stood in 
the door of the kitchen and shaded her eyes from the 
rays of the sun. 

“Did you git dat bottle of liniment, lak I told you?” 
she called before ’Lias had a chance to get up the steps. 

“Yassum, I fetched hit for you,” replied ’Lias, laugh- 
ing, “but I had to pay 10 cents mo’ for hit den you’se 
bin in de habit of payin’, kase de clerk in de drug 
sto’ said dat de price dun gone up sence de hurricane.” 

“Per Gawd sake !” cried the old servant. “Hit seems 
dat ’long as de hurricane dun swept dis place, de same 
lak hit did Natchez an’ Vidalia, de price oughter be 
down, ’stead er jumpin up lak dat. I’se mighty glad to 
git hit anyway, even ef hit do cost er dime mo’, kase 
my rheumatiz is lots wuss dis week den hit ever wuz 
befo’ an’ ef you hadn’t fetched hit Marse Albert ’lowed 
he’d have to send you ’cross de river to-night, to git de 
doctor,” she added^ taking the bottle and tearing off 
the wrapper. 

“Did you git dat muslin for my dress an’ dem blue 
beads an’ dat coral breastpin lak Sis’ Lucy bought for 
her gal to wear to de picnic?” inquired Lucetta, the 
housemaid, as she ran into the kitchen and began anx- 
iously examining the bundles as ’Lias placed them on 
the table. 

“An’ did you fetch dat blue-checked shirting an’ ging- 
ham what I wants to make some aprons for myself an^ 
some shirts for Caleb ?” questioned Aunt Patience, scan- 
ning the bundles that lay in a promiscuous heap before 
her. 


58 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

“Yes, I brought everything what you niggers told me 
to git, ^ceptin’ de thimble what Aunt Tilda told me to 
git for her,” answered ’Lias, wiping the perspiration 
from his forehead. 

“An’ how did you come to furgit dat thimble ?” asked 
Aunt Tilda, eyeing ’Lias suspiciously. 

“I didn’t furgit hit, but de man in de dry goods sto’ 
said dey wuzn’t makin’ dat kind no mo’, an’ he didn’t 
had none lak you wanted, so I got you one lak Aunt 
Patience uses,” explained the houseman. “Ef hit don’t 
suit, you don’t need to take hit, kase some of de wim- 
min will be wantin’ one an’ I kin sell hit for er dime 
an’ make er nickel on hit.” 

“Say, ’Lias, did Tom go wid you to Natchez?” in- 
quired Caroline, the washwoman, entering the kitchen 
with a big basket filled with freshly-laundered linen. 

“What you ax me dat for?” questioned ’Lias. 

“Kase I seed him hitchin’ one of his heifers on to de 
back of yo’ wagon when you an’ Uncle Jack driv past 
his cabin yistiddy mornin’, an’ I knowed dat he wuzn’t 
takin’ her down to de river to water,” replied Caroline. 

“Yas, he took her up to Natchez an’ sold her — now 
what else do you want to know?” asked the old darkey, 
taking a seat on the edge of the woodbox. 

“An’ how much did he git for dat heifer ?” 

“Po’teen dollars.” 

“Fer Gawd sake! Wuz dat all he got?” cried Caro- 
line, in amazement. 

“Fo’teen dollars wmz ev’ry cent he got,” answered 
’Lias, “an he wuz lucky to git dat. He could er got 
mo’ for her ef Ije had er taken my ’vice an’ driv her 
to Natchez, ’stead of hitchin’ her to de wagon an’ drag- 
gin’ her haf de way, kase she wuz plumb petered out 
when we got dere an’ lost in weight.” 

“I don’t see why Tom didn’t let Caleb know dat he 
wuz ’tendin’ to sell dat heifer,” commented Aunt Pa- 
tience, “kase we wuz countin’ on buyin’ one dis sum- 
mer, an’ Caleb would er gived $20 for her an’ saved 


■ , > 
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“ What did dat fool nigger do wid all dat money — put hit in de 

bank?’’ 


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<50 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


Tom all de trouble of takin’ her to Natchez. I wish 
he had er let us know, kase dat heifer had er sprinklin’ 
of Jersey in her, an’ we would er bin glad to take her 
off'n Tom’s hands at dat price,” added the old cook, in 
a disappointed voice. 

‘‘What did dat fool nigger do wid all dat money — 
put hit in de bank?” broke in Aunt Tilda, joining the 
group. 

“De fust think I seed him buy wuz er pair of dese 
here old-fashioned earbobs, an’ ” 

“Fer Gawd sake! Did Tom go an’ fiddle dat money 
erway on out-o’-style jewelry lak dat?” cried Aunt Pa- 
tience. 

“Dey wuzn’t cheap — dey wuz gold-filled, least dat’s 
what de man in de sto’ told Tom, an’ den de bought er 
’gagement ring an’ ” 

“What kind of er ring wuz hit?” chorused half a 
dozen voices. 

“Tom wuz lookin’ at three or fo’ diffent kinds, but 
de one what he bought wuz er plain gold one wid er 
red set in hit, an’ ” 

“An’ how much did hit cost, ’Lias ?” interrupted Aunt 
Tilda, as she carefully inspected the muslin dres*s goods 
which Lucetta was proudly holding up to view. 

“De-man wanted two dollars an’ er half for hit, but 
Tom jewed him down er doller, an’ dat only made hit 
cost er dollar an’ fifty cents. Dem old earbobs what 
Tom bought wuzn’t wmth er dollar, an’ I told Tom so, 
yet de man made him pay three dollars fer ’em, an’ 
dey out of style at dat.” 

“Wuz dem all de weddin’ presents what he buyed?” 
inquired Caroline, with an inquisitive look. 

“No, dat wuzn’t all he buyed, kase he got Sis’ Jen- 
kins two pair of weddin’ stockin’s — red an’ green 
striped ones, wid er sprinklin’ of yaller runnin’ 
through ’em, what cost two bits er pair. De man 
showed Tom some what wuz cheaper, but dey wuzn’t 
nigh as fancy as de ones for two bits, so he bought 


DOWN ON THD OLD PLANTATION. 


61 


’em, at de same time nudgin’ me an’ sayin’ dat dey 
looked jes lak de ones what he bought for his fust 
wife, when dey wuz married de fust year after de sur- 
render.” 

“Law-za-me !” cried Aunt Tilda. “I ’member dem 
stockin’s what ’Lias is talkin’ erbout, kase I wuz de 
one what her ma axed to her cabin, to hep dress de 
bride.” 

“An’ how wuz she dressed. Aunt Tilda?” asked, Lu- 
cetta, as she smoothed over the folds of muslin. 

“De dress wuz made out’n flowered Swiss, something 
lak dat muslin of your’n, ’eeptin dat hit wuz stiffer 
an’ de flowers in hit wuz as big as dis here dinner 
plate — den she had on er hoopskirt what wuz ev’ry 
bit of six foot ercross at de bottom.” 

“Good Lawd!” shouted Lucetta, breaking into a 
hearty laugh, in which the others joined. “How did she 
ever git er skirt what wuz big enuff to kiver hit?” 

“Why, chile, in dem days dey made de skirts pow- 
erful full, sometimes puttin’ eight an’ nine widths of 
cloth in one skirt, kase hit took er big one to kiver 
dem^ hoops. When de wind wuz bio win’ strong, hit 
wuz. all we could do to keep from bein’ blowed erway, 
an’ dere wuzn’t narry er do’ on dis whole plantashun 
what wuz wide enuff to let one of ’em through widout 
tiltin’ ’em up.” 

“What color wuz de dress what de bride wore ?” ques- 
tioned Caroline. 

“Hit had er purple ground wid raised yaller flowers 
on hit, an’ de long, blue earbobs, what wuz longer den 
my fo’flnger, hung down till dey touched her shoulders. 
You see, hit wuz ’sidered stylish in dem days for de 
wimmin to wear long earbobs an’ big hoops, an’ de 
one what had de biggest hoops an’ de longest earbobs 
wuz de belle of de ball when we uster have de plan- 
tashun dances.” 

“Did Tom buy any weddin’ clothes for hissef ?” ques- 
tioned Aunt Patience. 


62 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


‘‘Yas, he bought er white shirt what opened in de 
front, an’ er celluloid collar an’ er pair of low-cut tan 
shoes an ’er seersucker coat an’ vest an’ er pair of 
striped cottonade pants an’ some socks an’^ ” 

‘'How did he manage to buy all dat out’n dat fo’teen 
dollars?” asked Caroline, in amazement. 

“Tom’s clothes didn’t cost more’n fo’ dollars,” re- 
plied ’Lias, “an’ sides all de udder truck he ’membered 
all of Sis' Jenkins’ chillun wid er present.” 

“^n’ what all did he git for de chillun?” questioned 
Lucetta, hanging up the dust cloth. 

“He bought each of ’em er sack of striped stick 
candy, er chaney doll wid blue eyes for de gal, er tin 
horn for ’Liza Jane, an’ er whistle an’ er rubber ball for 
Fred Douglas, an’ de last place we went in he got 
er bottle of perfume for de bride.” 

“Whar’s he gwine to git money for to pay for de 
license, ef he fooled erway all he got for dat heifer?” 
exclaimed Aunt Patience, laughing until the tears ran 
from her eyes. 

“He’s dun ’ranged all dat wid Marse Albert, kase 
I heard him say dat he wuz plumb broke and wanted 
]\Iarse Albert to ’vance him enulf fer to git de license 
wid,” remarked Uncle Jack, who had just entered the 
kitchen. “When Marse Albert axed him ef he had 
money to give to de parson, for tyin’ de knot, Tom 
’lowed dat he didn’t had er cent left, but dat de preach- 
er could wait till he got straightened out an’ had er 
chance to sell dat udder heifer.” 

“I don’t know what dat nigger’s thinkin’ erbout,” 
commented Aunt Tilda, “when he goes to wuck an’ fools 
his money erw^ay on er lot er trash what ain’t er gwine 
to do nuther one of ’em no good, an’ I can’t understand 
what Sis’ Jenkins wants to marry dat old sinner for 
nohow, ’specially when she’s got er passel of chillun to 
wuck for, let erlone takin’ dat old bundle of bones, 
what’s all crippled up wid de rheumatiz. I reckon she 
thinks dat Tom will stay ’round de house an’ ’tend to 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 63 

de chillun an’ feed an’ water de chickens while she’s in 
de field at wiick, but Tom will have his hands full, 
I’m here to tell you, kase dem chillun is jes’ as wild 
as rabbits, an’ Fred Douglas is purty nigh as bad erbout 
gittin’ in mischief as Christopher Napoleon is. No lon- 
ger den last week dat debbilish boy ketched er live 
frog an’ put hit in Sis’ Millie’s churn what she had 
settin’ in de spring house, an’ she never knowed hit 
wuz dere till she put de dasher in de churn an’ noticed 
dat frog kickin’ an’ er swimmin’ erround in de milk. 
When I corned by her cabin yistiddy. Sis’ Millie wuz 
settin’ on de do’ step, wid er stick layin’ ’cross her 
lap waitin’ for dat imp of Satan, an’ when she gits her 
ban’s on him his ma sho’ will have er doctor bill to pay, 
kase Sis’ Millie ain’t one of dese kind what’ll stand for 
no tricks lak dat an den laff hit off as er joke.” 

‘T wouldn’t blame her ef she’d cripple dat boy so 
dat he couldn’t walk, kase dat milk wuz all spoilt an’ 
she had to pour hit in de trough for de pigs,” remarked 
Caroline. “Day befo’ yistiddy, when I corned in from 
de field at noon, dem chillun of Sis’ Jenkins’ wuz in 
my yard wid dere dogs, chasin’ my hens an’ worryin’ 
’em so dat dey didn’t lay narry er egg all day, an’ 
when I went over to her cabin an’ ’ported de matter, 
she ’lowed dat de chillun hadn’t dun nothin’ wrong — 
dat dey wuz only playin’ an’ dat she wouldn’t whip 
’em for me nor no udder woman on dis plantashun. 
I told her dat ef I ever ketched ’em inside my yard 
ergin, I’d take er stick an’ beat ’em till dey couldn’t 
walk — den she got mad at what I said, an’ ’lowed dat 
she’d put de law to me ef I ever laid ban’s on one of 
her chillun. I reckon she thought she’d scare me, but 
she don’t know me ef she thinks I’ll run from any 
woman, an’ ef I ever ketches ’em in my yard ergin, 
I’ll ” 

“You Christopher Napoleon! What you mean by 
draggin’ dat dade snake through dis yard?” shouted 
Aunt Tilda, shaking her fist at the little darky. “You 


64 DG'A^N ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

better take dat snake an’ fling hit in de bayou, kase ef 
Marse Albert sees you wid hit, tryin’ fer to scare dem 
chillun an’ make ’em have nightmare, you sho’ will 
need er doctor. Go on now, you little imp, an’ don’t 
stand dere an’ make faces at me.” 

‘‘I sho’ do pity ^at Tom,” continued Caroline, “kase 
he ain’t uster havin’ chillun erround him, an’ when 
• he gits laid up wid de rheumatiz he’ll And dat he ain’t 
got Sarah to wait on him an’ rub his legs wid turpen- 
tine an’ all dat medicine what he’s bin usin’. Ef he 
had er treated Sarah half-way right, she would er bin 
wid him yet, but he changed soon as he got married to 
her an’ didn’t want her to go to no parties nor have 
no fun, an’ you all knows dat er young gal lak her ain’t 
er grwine to stand for dat.” 

“Dat’s ’zactly what I told Tom yistiddy,” said ’Lias, 
“an’ me an’ him corned mighty nigh havin’ er fuss, 
kase I told him he kep Sarah pinned down too tight 
an’ didn’t want her to have no ’musement at no time. 
He ’lowed dat she had plenty to eat an’ all de clothes 
er woman needed, but dat ain’t all what er gal of 
Sarah’s age wants in dis world, fer to make her happy 
an’ ’tented, an’ when he uster set dere in his cabin of 
er evenin’ an’ made Sarah wait on him lak er baby 
an’ rub dem old legs of his’n till midnight, day after 
day, I knowed she’d up an’ leave him de fust chance 
she got. Er nigger what corned up on de Natchez de 
last trip told me dat Sarah wuz on de boat, an’ dat 
she' got off at Quitman’s Landin’, an’ dat er young buck 
got off wid her, so I reckon she don’t care much ef dat 
udder rascal did ’zert her when dey got down to New 
Orleans, kase he wuzn’t nuthin’ but er dude nigger 
nohow, an’ ef he ever dun er hard day’s wuck in his 
life, hit wuz when he wuz in jail an’ dey made him 
wuck.” 

“How corned hit dat you never set yo’ cap for Sis’ 
Jenkins, ’Lias?” questioned Caroline, giving Aunt Pa- 
tience a sly wink. 


/ 



How corned hit dat you never set yo' cap for Sis’ Jenkins, ’Lias ? 



66 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


“Who, me?” replied the old houseman, scratching his 
woolly head. 

“Yes, you,” shouted Caroline. “Sis’ Jenkins has er 
lot of money in de bank at Natchez, so dey say, an’ she 
knows how to hang on to what she gits, I’m here to 
tell you.” 

“Ef she had er million dollars in gold and silver, an’ 
de finest plantashun in Mississippi, I wouldn’t marry 
dat woman,” answered ’Lias, striking the edge of the 
woodbox violently with his clenched fist. “In de fust 
place, she’s got too violent er temper to suit me, an’ 
won’t listen to no argyment when she sets her hade 
to do er thing, an’ in de second place she ain’t got no 
mo’ control over dem chillun den she has over dat many 
wildcats. Hit don’t make no diff’rence what dey do 
an’ what debbilment dey gits into. Sis’ Jenkins stan’s 
up for ’em an’ won’t ’low nobody to say er word er- 
ginst ’em, an’ dat’s all wrong, kase some day dey’ll 
git into trouble an’ wake up an’ find dereselves bangin’ 
on de end of er rope. Dat Fred Douglass is de wust 
one in de lot, an’ ef he ever plays er trick on me lak 
he did on Uncle Jack last week. I’ll break ev’ry bone 
in his body, law or no law.” 

“An’ what did he do to Uncle Jack?” questioned Caro- 
line. 

“He got er wrench an' loosened de nuts on de hind 
wheels of his wagon, what wuz loaded wid eight bales 
of cotton, an’ when Uncle Jack got half way to de 
landin’ de wheels corned off, an’ ’sides flingin’ dem bales 
clear ’cross de road. Uncle Jack fell off’n de seat an’ 
nothin’ but de good Lawd saved him from gittin’ kicked 
to death by dem mules. As hit wuz, dey broke de pole 
an’ kicked de whole front end of de wagon into kindlin’ 
wood, an’ ef Sis’ Jenkins don’t come to time an’ pay 
Marse Albert for all de damage, she sho’ will have to 
leave de plantashun. When Uncle Jack went to see 
her ’bount hit, she only laffed an’ said dat all chillun 
got into mischief once in er while, an’ den when Uncle 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


67 


Jack axed her ef she wuzn’t gwine to give Fred Doug- 
las er heatin’, she flared up an’ grabbed de broom an’ 
ordered him out’n de cabin.” 

“An’ dat ain’t all dat rascal’s dun what’s mean,” com- 
mented Aunt Tilda, “kase he went in de hen house last 
Chewsday an’ stole all de eggs what wuz in de nests, 
he an’ de rest of de chillun takin’ ’em down to de bayou 
an’ suckin’ ’em, but we got even wid him all right.” 

“An’ how did you manage hit?” cried Caroline. 

“Me an’ Aunt Patience watched him de next day, 
kase we knowed he’d come erround after mo’ eggs, an’ 
when he went in de hen house we closed de do’ an’ 
ketched him wid his pockets full of eggs. While Aunt 
Patience held him by de throat wid both hands, I got 
er rotten egg what wuz under dat old domineck hen 
an’ put hit in his mouth — den we both closed down on 
his jaws an’ made him swallow de egg, shell an’ all, 
an’ now, when he sees me or Aunt Patience, he runs 
lak er wild deer.” 


8S 

8S 


Sarah’s Views on Matrimony 


The bright morning sun shone cheerfully in the 
kitchen window, where I stood watering some plants 
which I had brought from the front of the house in 
the hope of coaxing them to bloom. I had brought 
the shears along, and was clipping off a dead leaf 
here and a withered branch there, and I was glad to 
note that some were already beginning to lift up their 
drooping foliage in response to the sun’s mild rays. 
The servants were all busy with their work — Sarah 
ironing, Aunt Patience washing the breakfast dishes 
and putting them away, while Aunt Tilda was picking 
over a mound of turnips, greens, collards and other 
vegetables, as she sang: 

“Old Miss Eve sot er fishin’, wid er piece of meat 
an’ bread. 

When de debbil slipped up an’ put de apple in 
her hade, 

Tellin’ her ef she et up de core an’ all de seeds 

She could have er yaller josie an’ er string of 
chaney beads.” 

I had been in the kitchen but a short time when 
I observed that Sarah, who was ironing a blue linen 
dress of mine, was setting the irons down with un- 
necessary vigor, and that they gave forth a defiant hiss 
as she tested them. A glance at the woman was suffi- 
cient to convince me that something had gone wrong 
with her. 

“That dress washes beautifully, doesn’t it, Sarah?” 
I ventured. 

“Yassum, hit sho’ do, an’ I wish I had one lak 
hit,” she answered, with a toss of the head. “Befo’ 
you corned in de kitchen I wuz er tellin’ Aunt Patience 
dat dis am er mighty queer world, kase some people 



I had been in the kitchen but a short time when I observed that 
Sarah, who was ironing a blue linen dress of mine, was (setting the 
irons down with unnecessary vigor, and that they gave forth a defi- 
ant hiss as she tested them.’' 


70 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

has everything dey wants, an’ some don’t* have nothin’. 
I’se alius wucked hard all my life, but hit seems lak 
I never has nothin’ I wants.” 

'‘Now, Sarah, you know that ain’t so,” remarked 
Aunt Patience, as she hung up the dishcloth and came 
over to where the woman' was ironing the sleeve of 
my dress. “What’s de use of talkin’ to Miss Sammie 
lak dat, when you knows as well as we all does dat 
you has nicer clothes to wear, an’ more of ’em, den 
any married woman on dis plantashun, an’ dere ain’t 
ernudder cabin on de place what’s got mo’ sto’ boughten 
furniture in hit den your’n has. Has you furgotten 
dat Tom bought you er nice, big rockin’ cheer fer yo’ 
birthday, an’ dat las’ Christmus he bought you er tine 
lookin’ glass fer to hang up over yer mantel? You’s 
got carpet on de tio’ an’ nice red curtains to hang up 
over yer windows, an’ I’d jes’ lak to know what ^mu 
wants dat you hain’t got. What’s de matter wid you, 
gal?” she questioned, giving Sarah a searching glance. 

“I ain’t findin’ no fault wid what I’se got in de 
house,” answered Sarah, “but I wanted to go to dat 
dance over at Pea Ridge las’ night an’ Tom wouldn’t 
go wid me. When we corned home, he ’lowed dat he 
wuz too tired to go anywhar, an’ me an’ him had quite 
er fuss erbout hit, he er sayin’ dat he didn’t understan’ 
wdiat I wanted to be er gallivantin’ erround, always 
wantin’ to go to parties, an’ dat he didn’t see what 
business er married wmman had to be er dancin’ an’ 
flyin’ ’round all over the country. I told him dat 
I wuz goin’, whether he went or not, but he ’lowed 
dat I’d better be thinkin’ ’bout settlin’ down, lak er 
good wife ought to. Den he put his foot down an’ 
said dat I’d have to stay home.” 

“Well, hit wuz no wonder dat de man wuz tired,” 
broke in Aunt Patience, “ ’siderin’ dat he’d bin er 
helpin’ to kill de hogs yistiddy, an’ had bin up sence 
fo’ o’clock in de mornin’, cuttin’ an’ trimmin’ young 
saplin’s to make de poles w^hat dey wanted fer to 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


71 

swing de hogs on, an’ to hang de big kittles on, fer 
to bile de water to scald de hogs in.” 

“Well,” retorted Sarah, “didn’t I git up at fo’ ’clock, 
too, an’ didn’t I cut fat all day an’ he’p render up de 
lard, an’ grind de sassage an’ clean de pig’s feet an’ 
de hades, to bile fer to make souce wid? Didn’t I 
wuck jes’ as hard as Tom did? Dat’s jes’ lak you, 
alius takin’ up fer Tom an’ sidin’ wid him in ev’rything 
he does an’ says. 

“Doesn’t he treat you kindly?” I asked. “I know that 
he always treated Aunt ]\Iillie very nicely, and that 
they always got along well together.” 

“Dere goes i\Iiss Sammie, takin’ up<fer dat nigger, 
too,” cried Sarah, going to the stove for a hot iron. 

“Why shouldn’t I speak well of him?” I asked. “He 
was born and raised right here on Briers, and I know 
that there isn’t another darkey on the place that has 
rendered better service. No matter when he is called 
upon to do anything, day or night, he always does what 
is recpiired cheerfully and willingly, and if I were to 
ask him to drive me any place this morning, he would 
be only too glad to do so. I haven’t forgotten when 
‘Major’ ran away with me, and how Tom galloped after 
him and stopped him just as we were nearing the bank 
of the river, and if I can ever do him a favor I certainly 
will not neglect the opportunity to do so. You should 
not overlook the fact that you are Tom’s second wife, 
and much younger than he is, and that you have only 
been married a short time — three years, isn’t it?” 

“An’ dat’s three too many,” commented the irate 
woman, “kase I don’t care much erbout dat old nig- 
ger nohow. No matter ef we has lived together three 
years, ev’rybody knows dat I didn’t marry Toni for 
iove.” 

“For GawTl’s sake, listen to dat gal talk !” exclaimed 
Aunt Tilda, stopping in the midst of her work and 
rocking back and forth. “Now you jes’ tell Miss Sam- 
mie what you married Tom for, ef you didn’t marry 
him kase you loved him.” 


72 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

“To tell you de Gawd’s truth,” answered Sarah, “I 
married dat old nigger when I wuz nothin’ but er 
young gal an’ didn’t know what kind of er mess I wuz 
puttin’ my foot in. From de time I wuz twelve years 
old, my mother made me wuck out by de day, washin’ 
an’ ironin’, an’ I never did git to keep none of de money 
what I made, kase dere wuz er passel of us chillun, 
de mos’ of ’em younger den me, an’ I had to he’p fill 
dere mouths an’ keep er few rags on dere backs. I 
never did blame my old mammy for makin’ me wuck, 
kase she wuz dat hard wucked hersef dat she never 
got time to rest from one day to de udder, an’ when 
Tom’s wife died an’ he axed me to marry him, I took 
him kase I knq^wed dat he made lots of money an’ dat 
I’d have er home of my own. ’Course, I ’lowed dat I’d 
have to wuck an’ he’p erlong, kase wuck don’t hurt 
nobody, an’ I knowed dat when I got er little money 
saved up I could buy something for myse’f an’ not have 
to give hit all to de chillun, lak I dun at home. I mar- 
ried Tom more to gif er good home den anything else, 
an’ we has er good one, dat’s true, but I don’t want 
to stay in hit all de time, lak hit wuz er jail.” 

“Jes’ listen to dat selfish nigger talk,” commented 
Aunt Patience, getting me a dipper of lukewarm water 
for my plants. “I, for one, ain’t got er bit er sympathy 
for you, kase you don’t ’zerv.e hit.” 

“Well,” continued Sarah, “ef you wuz in my place, 

you’d be er You Christopher Napoleon, ef you 

don’t stop er rollin’ dem marbles ercross de kitchen 
flo’ an’ quit runnin’ under dis ironin’ boa’d, rubbin’ 
dem dirty feet of your’n erginst dese clothes what 
I’se ironin’, messin’ ’em all up, I’se er gwine to blister 
yo’ back wid dis hot iron !” 

“You’d better look out, boy,” admonished Aunt Pa- 
tience, “kase dat gal’s mad dis mornin’. She didn’t 
get to go to dat dance las’ night, to show off dat purty 
red dress of her’n, an’ ef she teches yo’ hide wid dat 
hot iron, you’ll be er smellin’ burnt flesh fer er whole 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


73 


WQek. Now mind what I tells you, boy!” 

“I blieve ’zactly lak Aunt Patience do,” said ’Lias, 
who had entered the kitchen a few moments before and 
stood near the stove, warming his hands. ‘‘1 ain’t got 
er bit of sympathy for no young gal what marries er 
man what’s old enulf to be her gran’pa, jes’ to git er 
home, an’ ef she makes her bed hard, let her lay on 
hit an’ not go ’round howlin’ lak er hit dog. Sarah 
oughter ’sidered all dis befo’ she married Tom, kase she 
might er knowed dat no old man lak him wuz er gwine 
to be takin’ her erround to parties an’ dances, lettin’ 
de young bucks dance wid his wife whilst he takes er 
back seat an’ plays wall flower. Ef er gal can’t make 
up her mind to give up all sech things befo’ she’s mar- 
ried. she ain’t got no business tyin’ up wid er old man.” 

“Well, didn’t he take me fur an’ near to parties 
an’ to picnics an’ to de ’tracted meetin’s, an’ to ev’ry- 
thing he heard of ?” protested Sarah. “He alius ’tended 
lak he felt as young as he ever did in his life, an’ 
when he wuz cou’tin’ me he uster cut de pige6n wing 
an’ carry on wuss’n any of de young niggers. Ev’ry 
time I wants to go anywhar now, he jes’ shets up in 
his shell lak er clam, an’ narry er step will he go, an’ 
I’m here to tell you dat I’se er gettin’ powerful tired 
of stayin’ home all de time.” 

“Long as you say dat you married Tom fer to git er 
home, you oughter be satisfled an’ stay dere,” continued 
’Lias, with a sly wink at Aunt Patience. 

“You git out’n dis kitchen, nigger!” exclaimed Sarah, 
giving ’Lias a savage look. “I didn’t ax you for no 
sympathy, an’ I don’t want none of hit from you, an’ 
e'f you don’t stop er teasin’ me. I’ll up wid dis iron 
an’* scrape some of de wool off’n your hade. I don’t 
care ef Tom is gittin’ old — he’s as good er husban’ as 
you’d ever make for er woman.” 

“Dar now, who throwed dat brick?” shouted Aunt 
Tilda, who had been listening attentively to the con- 
versation. 


74 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


“You kin all say what yer please/’ continued ’Lias, 
“but marriage ain’t nothin’ but er lot’ry nohow — some- 
times you draws er small prize, but de mos’ of de time 
you gits er blank. Far as I’m ’cerned, I’d jes’ as leef 
take pot luck by pickin’ out er wife dat I never sot 
eyes on befo’, kase I’d stan’ jes’ as good er chance of 
gittin’ one dat suited me as ef I had bin cou’tin’ her 
fer er solid year.” 

“You lyin’ nigger, you knows better’n dat!” cried 
Sarah; “kase ef er ” 

“No, sirree,” answered ’Lias, moving toward the door, 
“I b’lieve dat ef you ’lowed er dozen men an’ wimmin 
to choose dere wives an’ husban’s by lot, widout ever 
seein’ each udder, de chances is dat dey’d be jest as 
happy as ef dey had knowed each other befo’, kase yer 
can’t never tell what kind of er wife er gal is gwine 
to make till you’s already got yer hade in de noose. 
I b’lieve dat er woman would stan’ de same chance as 
er man, kase she can’t tell er thing ’bout what kind of 
er husban’ she’s gittin’ till after she’s hitched up to 
him in de marriage harness.” 

“I don’t want to marry no nigger what I hasn’t seed 
befo’, said Sarah, placing the scorching hot iron on the 
pillow slip she had just commenced ironing. “No, in- 
deed, I wants to git er look at him fust, an’ ’Lias is 
de same. He wouldn’t no mo’ think of marryin’ er 
woman what he’d never seed, den he would of flyin’, an’ 

I knows he wouldn’t. Ef ’Lias had er chance to . 

You Christopher Napoleon, ef you crawls under dat 
ironin’ boa’d ergin, scrapin’ dem muddy feet of your’n 
ergainst dese clean pillow slips, I’ll pop you ’longside 
de hade wid dis hot iron. Ef you thinks I won’t do 
hit. jes’ you keep er foolin’ wid me, boy!” 

“I knows one couple dat got married befo’ dey had 
bin ’quainted two weeks,” continued ’Lias, “an dey 
seems as happy as dey kin be. You knows who I means. 
Aunt Patience.” 

“Does yer mean Bill Graham?” she asked. 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


75 


“Dat’s de one/’ replied ’Lias. ‘‘Don’t you ’member 
when he corned' down here from Natchez an’ wanted 
to hire out to Marse Albert? He didn’t have no place 
for him, so he went over an’ hired out to Mister Hor- 
ton, over at de Oaks, whar Susie Wilson wuz wuckin’. 
as cook. Now, she never sot eyes on Bill till he corned 
dere lookin’ fer wmck, but de minute he seed Susie he 
wuz hade over heels in love wid her. Dat very night, 
whilst dey wuz eatin’ dere supper in de kitchen he up 
an’ told her dat he loved her, but she ’lowed dat time 
would tell, an’ dat ef she laked him at de end of de 
year, an’ he wuz satisfied wid her, den hit would be 
time enuff to think erbout gittin’ married. Bill begged 
dat gal to marry him for more’n er w^eek, but she kept 
puttin’ him off an’ wouldn’t give him no ’cided answer. 
One day, when she wuz right in de midst of cookin’ de 
dinner. Bill seed her run toward de smokehouse, arter 
some lard. What did he do but sneak up an’ slammed 
de do’ an’ locked Susie in ! She begged him to let her 
out, tollin’ him dat she knowed de dinner wuz sho’ to 
burn, but he told her he wouldn’t let her out till she 
promised to marry him de next night at prayer meetin’. 
Susie battered on de do’ an’ begged Bill to open hit, 

tollin’ him dat she could smell de dinner burnin’, but 

Bill wouldn’t open hit till she promised to marry him. 
She told me dat afternoon, when I went over dere to 
take Mister Horton er message for Marse Albert, dat 
she didn’t have no notion of keepin’ dat promise, but 

Bill went erround tollin’ ev’rybody dat dey wuz er 

gwine to be married dat week, ’reetly arter prayer 
mootin’, so Susie didn’t see how she could back out. 
Sho’ enuff, dey wuz married, an’ I’d lak to have some- 
body show me er happier pair of niggers den dey is.” 

“Jes’ you wait,” cried Sarah. “Dey ain '- bin married 
quite er year yet, an’ hit ain’t too late for ’em to fall 
out an’ git divorcement papers. Ef hit had bin me 
dat he locked up an’ he tried to make me promise to 
marry him befo’ he’d let me out, de minute I got back 


76 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


in dat kitchen I'd er got er gourd of bilin’ water an’ 
scalded him wid hit.” 

“No you wouldn’t,” said ’Lias, “kase er gal laks to 
have her beau determined, an’ Susie wuz as tickled 
over hit as she 'could be. She knowed dat he had will 
power what wuz stronger den her’n, an’ dat’s what er 
gal laks in her husban’. Ef Tom had er gin you er 
good lickin’ de fust week you wuz married he never 
would er had trouble wid you, an’ you’d er thought dat 
he wuz de onlies’ man er livin’. Many er man has los’ 
er good wife by bein’ too good an’ kind to her, when, 
ef he’d er lit into her an’ whaled de life out’n her, she 
would er settled down an’ made er good wife. Dar’s 
Wash Smith — look at him. Dat nigger’s got de best 
wife of any man on dis place, an’ he’d only bin married 
er short time when she corned er walkin’ home from 
church one night wid dat yaller nigger what uster be 
’sidered such er fine preacher. De minute Wash heard 
’em talkin’ outside he jumped out’n de bed an’ mos’ 
beat de life out’n his wife befo’ Marse Albert heard de 
racket an’ made ’em stop.” 

“Ef dat had bin me,” cried Sarah, “I sho’ would er 
fixed dat nigger for er trip to de hospital, an’ when 
dey turned him erloose he would er runned ever arter- 
wards when he seed anything what looked lak me. I 
sho’ would er fixed dat nigger, an’ dat’s de Gawd’s 
truth,” she added, setting the sizzing iron down with 
a bang. 

“You’d better be good to Tom, kase he might take 
er notion to beat you some night when you comes home 
from church wid er stray nigger,” ventured Aunt Tilda. 

“Ef dat man ever lays one of his black ban’s on me 
I sho’ will make business pick up wid him, kase I 
wouldn’t ’low no nigger to beat me, not even my own 
father,” cried Sarah, angrily, making a dive for Chris- 
topher Napoleon, who had ventured too near the ironing 
board. 

The darkey scented danger, however, and sprang 





r. . 


t 

I ' 


/ 




*- . ■> I"' >, ' 


• T 






You git right out’n dis kitchen 1 ” 




.<*1 ' 





t, 



1 
















ri' I 


.Ki. 









9 


78 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

through the open door in time to avoid being burnt 
with the hot iron. 

Standing in the door, Sarah shouted: “I jes’ dare 
you to come back in dis kitchen while I’se here, you 
black imp of Satan. Ef I lays my ban’s on you, boy, 
yer old granny sho’ will have er job makin’ poultices 
to put on de place where I burns you. You hear what 
I say, don’t you?” 

“When er woman marries er man,” continued ’Lias, 
“he natchelly ’speets her to ” 

“You git right out’n dis kitchen, ’Lias !” cried Sarah, 
advancing toward him, brandishing the hot iron above 
her head. “I’se tired of bearin’ you talkin ’bout folks 
marryin’ stray niggers what dey never heard of befo’, 
kase you don’t think dat way an’ I knows you don’t.” 

“Dere ain’t no doubt in my mind whether hit am best 
to marry for love or jes’ to git er home,” commented 
Aunt Patience, “kase I knows well enuff dat ef folks 
don’t marry for love dese days dey sho’ won’t livp 
happy together. Now, dere’s dat gal Kose of mine, 
what married er po’ strip of er boy kase she loved him 
an’ he loved her. She’s only 21 an’ she’s got fo’ chillun, 
yet dey’s de happiest niggers in de whole of Adams 
county. Dey both wucks mighty hard, an’ while dey 
ain’t got as nice er furnished cabin as Sarah has, dey’s 
gittin’ erlong well as anybody ’round here. When Caleb 
went to visit her las’ month an’ he axed her ef she 
wuzn’t sorry kase she had so many chillun to pervide 
for, she laffed an’ said dat she didn’t mind havin’ so 
many, an’ dat she’d ruther be wid Belton an’ live on 
bread an’ water den to eat turkey an’ pound cake wid 
er nigger what she didn’t love.” 

A few days later, when I entered the kitchen, I 
heard Aunt Patience remark to Aunt Tilda : “I reckon 
dat Sarah an’ Tom’s dun made up, kase I seed ’em 
goin’ by here jes’ now, walkin’ toward dere cabin, 
arm in arm.” 

“Dey sho’ has made up,” answered Aunt Tilda, “kase 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


79 


Sarah wuz tellin' me las’ night dat Tom dun brought 
her er nice new stan’ table for dere front room, an’ I 
knows dat she’s bin er wantin’ dat table for er long 
time. Tom’s plumb foolish ’bout dat gal, even ef 
she is giddy an’ wants to go to all de dances, an’ dat 
shows what er man’ll do fer er gal ef he loves her. 
We all knows dat his fust wife wucked hard an’ did 
all she could to he’p erlong, but hit wuz lak pullin’ 
teeth to git him to buy her anything for de house 
what cost money. Sarah wuz er tellin’ me ’bout er 
party dress what she seed in er sto’ in Natchez what 
dey wants $20 for, an’ I’ll bet she gits dat money out’n 
Tom befo’ de sun goes down, now you mark what I 
say. I knowed dat she’d — You Grover Clevelan’, go 
outside an’ wipe yo’ feet befo’ you comes in dis 
kitchen, trackin’ mud all over de fio’ what me an’ 
Aunt Patience jes’ finished scrubbin’. Ef you leaves 
er mark on dat fio’. I’ll break ev’ry bone in yo’ body, 
boy!” 


When the Cowboys Visited the 
Plantation 


‘Ter de Lawd sake ! Come here quick, Aunt Pa- 
tience, an’ see what debbilment dem chillun is up to 
now!” shrieked Aunt Tilda, one of the faithful old ser- 
vants on the Briers plantation, at the same time sticking 
her head out of the kitchen window that overlooked the 
back yard where a dozen or more little pickaninnies 
were playing under a large pecan tree. 

“What on earth am er happenin’ to dem chillun 
now ?” cried the old cook, throwing her apron over her 
head and running down the back steps. Before I could 
get to the window and see what was going on, I heard 
her exclaim : 

‘AVhat in de name of^Gawd does you mean, boy? 
Ain’t you got no better sense den to be twistin' dat 
rope erround dat chile’s neck lak dat, tryin’ your level 
best fer to choke him? Ever sence dem cowboys struck 
dis plantashun, you debbilish youngsters ain’t thought 
of nothin’^lse but tryin’ to hang somebody, an’ I 'lows 
dat you ain’t er gAvine to stop till some of you has yer 
neck broke. Noav you untwis’ dat rope dis minute an’ 
take dat chile out’n dat swing befo’ I breaks ev’ry bone 
in yo’ body. You hear Avhat I say, don’t you?” 

“Hit wuzn’t me dat twisted de rope — Fred Douglas 
dun hit,” said one of the little darkies, breaking into a 
fit of crying. 

“Whar is dat debbilish boy?” exclaimed Aunt Pa- 
tience, at the same time grabbing one of the little dar- 
kies by the shoulder and giving him a vicious shake. 
“Ef I ketches you chillun foolin’ Avid dat rope ergin, I’sb 
gAvine to string de last one of you up by de heels an’ let 
you hang lak dat till de sun goes doAvn — noAv you mind 
AATat I say,” 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


81 


Much to the amusement of his companions, the guilty 
little culprit sprang well out of the old cook’s reach and 
began walking on his hands. 

“Ef I lays my hands on you jes’ once, you black 
imp. I’ll teach you how to walk on yo’ hands an’ crack 
dem heels in my face,” cried Aunt Patience, reaching 
for the limb of a chinaberry tree and breaking off a 
branch the size of an ax handle. ‘‘Jes’ you try dat 
heel-crackin’ business ergin an’ I’ll show you who’s de 
boss ’round here, no matter what yO’ ma says erbout 
hit. Ef Marse Albert ketches you actin’ smart lak dat 
’round here, he’ll drive ev’ry one of you off’n dis plan- 
tashun, dat’s what he will, kase he told me an’ Aunt 
Tilda yistiddy dat he didn’t want you niggers to be 
bangin’ round de kitchen all de time, eatin’ enuff 
vittels fer to feed de troops of Jericho an’ doin’ nothin’ 
to earn yo’ boa’d. Clear out of here now, de last one 
of you, an’ don’t let me ketch you in dis yard ergin 
to-day,” commanded the angry* old cook, throwing the 
stick to one side and starting for the kitchen, where 
she met Caroline going up the steps that led to the back 
porch. 

“What on earth is gittin’ into dese chillun here 
lately. Aunt Patience?” asked the old washwoman, as 
she dropped the empty clothes hamper near the open 
door and sat down in a near-by chair. 

“Dem chillun has bin foolin’ wid dat swing all 
mornin’, twistin’ hit erround an’ ’round ; den dey’d turn 
hit erloose, to see hit whirl an’ untwis’ lak er top spin- 
nin’,” explained Aunt Tilda, as she rocked back and 
forth, stringing the green beans she was preparing for 
the noon meal. ‘'Dey wuzn’t doin’ er bit of harm till 
dat debbilish boy of Sis’ Jenkins’ corned up here er- 
while ergo an’ ’gun to show Christopher er new trick, 
by havin’ one of de chillun put his hade in de. noose an’ 
d’en twistin’ de rope till de po’ chile wuz most strangled, 
an’ ef I hadn’t er seed ’em in time an^ called Aunt Pa- 
tience when I did, dey would er had dat chile er floatin’ 


82 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

up in de flowery kingdom by dis time. Ever sence dat 
Bud Gillespie an’ ‘Broncho Charley’ corned here to visit 
Marse John, I’se had to set by dat window, where I 
could keep er sharp lookout on de back yard, kase dere 
ain’t no tollin’ what mischief dem chillun will be up to 
an’ some of ’em is liable to git killed.” 

“Dat’s de fo’th time I’se had to run out in de yard 
sence breakfust, to keep dem chillun out’n mischief,” 
declared Aunt Patience, giving the cook table a vigor- 
ous shove against the wall and hanging up the dish- 
cloth, “an’ de next time I ain’t er gwine to bother wid 
’em, ef dey do holler, kase I’se gittin’ plumb out o’ pa- 
tience wid ’em.” 

“I don’t see what’s gittin’ into dem chillun here 
lately,” remarked Caroline, “kase when Sis’ Millie 
corned home yistiddy from visitin’ her daughter w^hat’s 
sick over at Pea Eidge, she found dat all three of Sis’ 
Jenkins’ chillun had bin at her cabin, an’ what you 
reckon dem black rascals dun gone an’ dun?” 

“De Lawd only knows, kase I don’t,” answered Aunt 
Patience, with a look of interest. 

“What did they do. Sis’ Calline?” questioned Aunt 
Tilda, stopping in the midst of her work. 

“Dey had two young pups an’ fo’ of Sis’ Millie’s cats 
hangin’ to de clothes line, an’ dat old Muscovy duck 
what has bin sittin’ in dat hollow sass’fras tree down 
nigh de fence wuz er hangin’, hade down, from de 
limb of dat big chanyberry tree.” 

“Fo‘ Gawd! It dat true?” exclaimed Aunt Tilda, 
in astonishment. 

“Wuz dat de duck what “Sis’ Millie wuz ’spectin’ fer 
to hatch out next Saturday?” interrupted Aunt Pa- 
tience. 

“Yassum, dat’s de same one,” answered Caroline, with 
a hearty laugh, “kase Sis’ Millie sot her on de Sat- 
urday when we had dat big wind storm, an’ dat would 
be fo’ weeks dis cornin’ Saturday. When Sis’ Millie 
axed dem chillun what dey meant by hangin’ dat duck 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


83 


lak dat dey said dat dey took her off’n de nest kase 
dey couldn’t wade in deep water in dat pond an’ ketch 
none of de udders; an’ one of Sis’ Jenkins’ boys told 
’em hit would bring ’em bad luck ef dey hanged er cat 
an’ no duck. After dey got de eggs what de duck wuz 
settin’ on, an’ dey ” 

“And what did dey do wid de eggs?” broke in Lu- 
cetta, who had just entered the kitchen. 

“Dey made Sis’ Millie’s youngest gal stand up ’long- 
side de cabin, an’ den dey ’gun to throw dem eggs 
at her. When dey wuz all used up dey went in de 
henhouse an’ got some mo’ what wuz under er hen 
settin’ in de corner,, an’ by de time dey got through dat 
po’ chile smelt wuss den er. polecat.” 

“Per Gawd sake — listen to dat !” shouted Aunt Tilda, 
holding up both hands. 

“After dey dun got through wid dat performance,” 
continued Caroline, “dey tried to ketch dat old gray 
goose w^hat’s er settin’ in dat hollow log nigh de path 
what leads to de spring under de hill; but when they 
dragged her olf’n de nest dat ole white gander what 
alius stands guard over hits mate jumped at ’em an’ 
grabbed one of de gals by de dress, draggin’ her to 
de ground, an’ den he flapped his wings an’ beat her 
so dat she wuz mighty glad to get erway erlive, I’m 
here to tell you.” 

“Den dey did’nt harm de goose, eh?” inquired Aunt 
Tilda. 

“ ‘Deed dey didn’t, kase when dat gander got through 
wid ’em dey wuz all glad to keep out’n dat yard an’ 
let her erlone.” 

“An’ what is Sis’ Millie gwine to do about it ?” asked 
Aunt Patience. 

“She says dat she’s gwine ter see er lawyer an’ make 
Sis’ Jenkins pay fer all dat damage, but I ” 

“Well, I kin tell her right now dat she kin put all 
de money in one corner of her eye what she gits out’n 
Sis’ Jenkins for damages,” continued Aunt Tilda, with 
a doubtful shake of the head. 


84 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


'‘Aunt Tilda’s right erbout dat, kase Sis’ Jenkins 
never wuz known to pay er red cent for nothin’ dem 
debbilish chillun of her’n has ’stroyed,” remarked ’Lias, 
as he came into the kitchen and deposited a hat full 
of fresh eggs into the half-filled egg basket that sat 
on the back of the cook table. “Dem chillun of her’n 
ain’t de onliest ones what’s gittin’ into mischief ’round 
here sence dat Bud Gillespie an’ his partner corned here 
an' upset things so, kase when I runned over to Sis’ 
Lucy’s cabin dis mornin’ to borrow er hoe to kill er 
snake wid, wdiat you reckon I found dere?” added the 
old houseman, with a glance around the kitchen. 

“De Lawd only knows! What did you find, ’Lias?” 
exclaimed Caroline, full of interest. . 

“Well, sir, when I jumped de back fence, dar wuz 
her youngest boy er bangin’ to de limb of er ehany- 
berry tree, givin’ er twitch now an’ den, lak er rooster 
does after I’se chopped hits hade off an’ hit’s erbout 
dade, an’ ef I hadn’t er corned jes’ when I did* we 
woukLer had ernudder fun’rel on dis plantashun.” 

“Wuz he hung wid er rope, ’Lias?” questioned Lu- 
cetta. 

“No, but wid er long willow,” answered the house- 
man. “Hit wuz lucky dat hit wuzn’t er rope, kase 
he would er bin dade long befo’ I got dere an’ cut 
him down. Me an’ Sis’ Lucy wucked over dat chile 
er long time befo’ we fetched him back to life, an’ 
I had to draw de third bucket of water out’n dere 
well an’ 'pour hit on his hade befo’ we could see er 
sign of life in de chile’s body.” 

“Who wuz hit dat hung de chile ?” asked Aunt Tilda. 

“Sis’ Lucy says dat hit wuz dun by er nigger boy 
what lives over on Glasscock’s Island, but I seed Sis’ 
Jenkins’ boy runnin’ through de cotton field whilst I 
wuz chasin’ dat snake, an’ I ’lows dat he knows mo’ 
erbout hit den anybody else. He wuz ” ^ 

“Fer de Lawd sake!” cried Aunt Tilda, running to 
the door. “If dem chillun ain’t back here, er worryin’ 


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de life ont’n Miss Geuie’s calf, eliasiu’ hit erround de 
yard an’ trjdn’ fer to ride on hits back. What yon 
chillnn doin’ dere?” she shouted, loud enough to be 
heard in Natchez. 

“i wish dem cowboys had er staid in Wyoming, whar 
de’y b’long,” continued ’Lias, ‘‘kase w^e ain’t had nothin’ 
but ’citement an’ trouble ever sence dey’s bin here. De 
fust day dey wuz here, Marse John took ’em out to 
de big pasture lot an’ ’lowed ’em to ride dat colt what 
Marse Albert thinks so much of, dey er spurrin’ hit an’ 
makin’ hit buck an’ rear up on hits hind feet. Bud 
Gillespie says dat hit ain’t nothin’ lak de ones what dey 
has out on de plains, an’ dat hit wuz easier to ride den 
er billy goat, but I wouldn’t straddle dat colt an’ 
take de shakin’ up what he got for er hundred dollars. 
He says dat dey has bosses out dere who’ll buck an’ 
fight ev’ry time de saddle is put on ’em, an’ dat er 
hoss ain’t ’sidered no ’count less’n he’ll buck an’ pitch, 
but I don’t want to ride none of ’em ef dey’s any wuss 
den dat colt.’*’ 

“Dey corned over to my place dis mornin’, ’rectly 
arter we had breakfust,” remarked Caroline, “an’ when 
I looked out de window to see what mischief dey wuz 
up to, dey had er rope ’round Jackson’s neck an’ wuz 
draggin’ him all over de yard, dey tellin’ him dat’s de 
way dey ropes steers out on de prairie. Marse John 
never did had no use for dat bulldog of Sis’ Jenkins’, 
an’ when hit corned er nosin’ ’round de back fence an’ 
Marse John seed hit he told one of de cowboys dat he 
could have de dog ef he could rope hit. De next thing 
I seed er rope goin’ through de air, an’ whilst I didn’t 
see ’em do hit, Caleb told me dat dey dragged hit down 
to de river an’ flung hit in ; den'dey ’gun to shoot at hit 
an’ put so many holes through de dog’s skin dat hit 
sunk outer sight an’ went down-wid de current. When 
Sis’ Jenkins corned er runnin’ down to de river an’ 
axed ef dey had seed anything of her bulldog, one of 
de cowboys threw er rope over her hade an’ corned 





“ Marse John told one of de cowboys dat he could have de dog ef he 

could rope hit.” 



88 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


mighty nigh throwin’ her in de river, too. I wish dey 
had er gin her er good duckin’ befo’ dey turned her 
loose, kase I ain’t got no use for dat woman, an’ I 
never will have till she keeps dem chillun of her’n at 
home an’ makes ’em ’have dereselves.” 

“What was all the fuss about down around the quar- 
ters last night?” I asked. 

“I must tell you erbout dat. Miss Sammie,” answered 
Caroline, laughing heartily. “Dem cowboys corned 
down dere wid Marse John an’ showed us how de In- 
juns holds dere pow-wows an’ dances, but we’se all 
hopin’ an’ prayin’ dat dey won’t come no mo’. Dere 
must er bin over three hundred of us niggers watchin’ 
’em dance an’ cut up, but when dey grabbed Jackson 
an’ put er rope ’round his neck an’ said dey wuz gwine 
to scalp him an’ burn him at de stake, dem niggers 
scattered lak sheep ; den when dey got on dere bosses 
an’ rode up an’ dovm in front of de cabins, shootin’' 
dere ’volvers an’ whoopin’ lak dey wuz mad, de niggers 
all closed dere do’s an’ bolted ’em, an’ long arter dey 
had gone an’ I wanted my old man to go to de well 
an’ git me er bucket of water, he wuz too seared to 
go outside de cabin. I wanted dat water awful bad, to 
wash out er few things befo’ I went to bed, but I didn’t 
want hit bad enuff to go to no well for hit, I’m here to 
tell you.” 

“Dey both went out to Ilutzell’s lake wid Marse John 
yistiddy mornin’, broke in ’Lias, “but dere war ’n’t no 
fishin’ widin’ er hundred miles of de place where dey 
stopped, kase dey wuz all shootin’ at de cranes an’ at 
alligators all de way to Je place where dey ’spected to 
fish. John Hughes wuz wid ’em, an’ he says dat Bud 
Gillespie jumped in de lake an’ tried to ride er alligator 
what he shot an’ wounded an’ what wuz splashin’ ’round 
in de water, but I don’t b’lieve dat — deed I don’t. Dere 
is some alligators in dat lake what’s more’n forty foot 
long, kase I’se bin dere huntin’ ’em mo’ times den I 
has -fingers an’ toes, an’ dere ain’t nobody ’round dis 








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DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


part of de country what’s got de nerve to jump in de 
water an’ try to ride one of ’em, an’ dat ain’t no lie.” 

“When dey wuz over at our place dis mornin’,” said 
Caroline, “dey told my old man dat dere is great big 
mountains out in Wyoming what’s covered wid snow all 
de year ’round, an’ dat hit never melts, winter nor sum- 
mer, but I don’t b’lieve dat, kase I knows hit ain’t so. 
I knows dere’s lot er snow out dere, kase I’se heard 
other people w^hat’s bin out dere say so, ’sides I’se seed 
pictures of hit in books, but dey might as well go out 
in de barn yard an’ talk to de chickens as to try an’ 
make me b’lieve dat de snow ever gits three an’ fo’ feet 
deep, or dat dey has to take er ax to chop holes through 
de ice in de creeks to git water to drink an’ cook wid. 
One of ’em said dat de ice on de creeks an’ rivers often 
gits so thick in de winter time out dere' dat dey kin 
drive er wagon ’cross hit, an’ when I looked at Marse 
John an’ axed him ef dat wuz really so, he laffed an’ 
said dat hit wuz de truth, yet he knew dat boy wuz 
tollin’ er lie. Dey’s all goin’ out in de swamps to- 
morrow to hunt for bear, but dey can’t git no nigger 
on dis plantashun to go ’long wid ’em. I’ll bet on dat.” 

‘‘Why so?” I asked. 

“Kase dey says dey ain’t er gwine to carry nothin 
but ’volvers an’ rifles, an’ you can’t git no nigger to 
tackle er bear less’n he’s got er shotgun, you hear me. 
Dere’s mighty few niggers ’round here what’s got de 
nerve to go bear huntin’ when dey’s got er shotgun an’ 
plenty of ammunition, an’ de most of de hunters ketches 
’em in traps an’ den shoots ’em, but Marse John an’ 
dem cowboys says dat ain’t de way dey hunts game, 
dey claimin’ dat even er animal oughter have some 
chance to fight for his life. Dey’s bin tryin’ for two 
days to git my old man to promise to go wid ’em on 
dat hunt, but dey could offer him er thousand dollars 
an’ den he wouldn’t go— dat he wouldn’t. I heard 
Marse John tollin’ dem cowboys dat dere wuzn’t nothin’ 
but little bits o’ cubs ’round here, an’ dat none of ’em 



'‘Look yonder — dere’s one of ’em ridin’ dat yearlin’ widout no 
saddle or bridle.” 


92 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


would weigh over 300 pounds, but I’se got er piece of 
crepe all ready to put on his do’ ef he goes arter dem 
bear widout er shotgun, no matter ef he do say dey’s 
only cubs.” 

“How about the baptizing next Sunday — do you ex- 
pect much of a crowd?” I asked. 

“No’am, kase dat’s bin postponed till arter dese here 
cowboys goes erway,” replied Caroline, laughing heart- 
ily. “Brudder Jackson an’ de parson both ’lowed dat 
hit wouldn’t do to have er baptizin’ whilst dese cow- 
boys is here, kase dere ain’t no tellin’ what kind o’ 
mischief dey’d be up to, an’ de parson over at Pea 
Ridge has heard so much erbout dere cuttin’ up dat 
he’s ’fraid to come over an’ hold any kind of er service 
whilst dey’s on de plantashun.” 

“I knows why he’s so skeert of ’em,” remarked ’Lias, 
grinning. “Dey ketehed him ridin’ ’long de road de 
udder day, talkin’ to hissef lak he alius do, an’ dey 
rode up an’ roped him an’ dragged him off’n his mule, 
an’ sence dat he’s bin mo’ ’fraid of ’em den he is of 
er moccasin or er hoop snake. Look yonder — dere’s 
one of ’em ridin’ dat yearlin’ widout no saddle or 
bridle !” 


Christmas ’Way Down South in the 
Land o’ Cotton 


. From where I leaned lazily back in my comfortable 
rocker on the broad veranda of the manager’s residence 
at Briers plantation, I could get a splendid view of the 
grand old Mississippi river, while the bright rays of 
mellow sunshine made its yellow waters gleam like 
scales of shimmering, burnished gold. The long Span- 
ish moss, stirred by a soft Southern breeze, swung lazily 
back and forth from the branches of the stately live 
oaks on the lawn, while a bevy of bright-plumed red- 
birds were singing and twittering from every bough, 
seemingly trying to outrival the rollicking, frolicking 
little pickaninnies, who were happily rolling on the 
soft grass beneath them. It was the day before Christ- 
mas, and the darkies were almost wild and merry-mad 
in joyous anticipation of the good time in store for 
them, for in no place in the wide world has Christmas 
so deep a meaning as to the Southern child, be it white 
or black. It is the golden milestone from which he 
measures everything — the season that divides his years, 
in which is centered all the joys and anticipations of 
his young heart. For weeks before its coming, his 
whole being fairly thrills with excitement and pleasure 
at the very thought of the presents he is to receive, 
and of the freedom he will have during the holidays; 
he hoards up every nickel he can get, .to invest in pin- 
wheels, Koman candles, firecrackers and other explo- 
sives, for Christmas, without lots of noise, would seem 
tame indeed to his overwrought, excited imagination. 

My revery w^as broken by the approach of Aunt Pa- 
tience, the faithful old cook, exclaiming : 

‘^Honey, don’t yer want to come in de kitchen fer er 


94 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


minute, to stir de plum puddin’, lak all de res’ has 
done? Yassum, Marse Frank, Marse Albert, Marse 
John, Miss Genie, an’ all de white folks ’ceptin’ you 
has dun had dere turn at stirrin’ hit. Why, la, honey, 
has yer done forgot dat hit brings good luck fer de 
New Year, when all de members of de family has 
stirred de Christmus plum, puddin’ ? Well, I do decla’, 
you has bin erway so long dat you has mos’ fur got 
ev’rything ’bout de way you wuz brung up ! Well does' 
I ’member one Christmus when yer gran’pa’ wuz er 
stayin’ here wid Miss Frances. Hit wuz your fust 
Christmus in de world, an’ he had you in his arms 
when I called him fer to come an’ stir de puddin’. I 
kin see him now, honey, standin’ dere, holdin’ you over 
de big mixin’ bowl, an’ puttin’ de spoon in your tiny 
little han’, so dat you could stir hit befo’ he did, an’ 
dere stood yer mother, tryin’ fer to keep back de tears 
what wuz er gatherin’ in her sweet violet blue eyes, 
kase she knowed dat her good ole father’s days wuz 
numbered an’ dat he would soon leave us an’ go to 
er better world. Sho’ nuff, honey, de angels did come 
fer him de next spring, but he wuz er good man, an’ 
dey found him ready and er waitin’ when de Marsa 
called him.” 

“Why is it. Aunt Patience, that you make the pud- 
ding oblong ?” I asked, as I sfoo'd at the cook’s side and 
watched her molding it. 

“Why, honey,” she replied, “I alius makes hit in de 
shape of de manger, wid de chopped meat made of 
mutton, kase de shepherds watched dere flocks on dat 
gran’ night when de blessed Savior wuz born — dat’s 
what yer mother alius uster tell us. I’se got to hurry, 
chile, an’ git through wid my bakin’, kase Sis Calline 
an’ ’Lias an’ Uncle Jack an’ me is er gwine to take de 
ehllun out to de edge of de swamp, fer to gather some 
pine, an’ cedars an’ mistletoe an’ holly, fer to use in 
decoratin’ de house, an’ I’m here to tell you dat dere 
won’t be no purtier dinin’-room nowhar den what we’ll 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


95 


have when we gits through. Hit jes’ wouldn’t seem lak 
hit wuz Christmus at all ef we didn’t have de whole 
house decorated, an’ Sis’ Calline tells me dat dem nar- 
cissus what Miss Genie’s bin er waterin’ wid lukewarm 
water, to fo’ce em to grow, has ’gun to show dere purty 
white petals an’ golden centers. By to-morrow dey’ll 
all be wide open an’ in full bloom, an’ when dey’s 
banked up on de sideboa’d an’ on de high mantel, dey 
sho’ will look purty ’mongst de green leaves of de holly, 
fillin’ de whole room with sweet perfume. 

“Dere ain’t bin er Christmus since I kin ’member dat 
we didn’t have er lot of flowers er bloomin’ fer to 
brighten up dis ole house, an’ lots of mistletoe, wid its 
w^hite, waxy berries er shinin’ through de yallerish 
green of hits leaves. Yassum, I’se often heard yer 
mother say dat de mistletoe bloomed in de springtime, 
when de perfume of de apple' blossoms an’ de roses wuz 
er makin’ de air fragrant, but she uster tell us dat 
hit waits till Christmus fer to ripen hits berries in clus- 
ters of three, fer to bring our minds to de holy trinity. 
She uster tell us dat de holly, wid hits prickly leaves, 
represented de crown of thorns, an’ de bright red ber- 
ries de draps of blood. Why, honey, hit jes’ seems lak 
hit wuz no longer’n yistiddy when yer mother, wid 
her sweet angel face, uster come out in de kitchen, 
where I’d be er cookin’ an’ gittin’ things ready fer de 
Christmus feast, she er settin’ over dere by dat big 
open fireplace, de blaze from de roarin’ logs makin’ her 
pretty cheeks glow lak two big red roses ; an’ how her 
eyes would light up an’ sparkle whilst she wuz er tellin’ 
us erbout de time when de shepherds watched dere 
flocks dat night, an’ how de big, bright star wuz er 
shinin’ in de East, proclaimin’ de birth of de Savior 
what wuz to bring peace an’ good will to all men, both 
black an’ white, an’ how his bed wuz nothin’ but er 
manger, kase dere wmzn’t no room at de hotel fer him, 
an’ dat’s why she alius had me make de plum puddin’ 
in de shape of er manger, so dat hit would represent 


96 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


de manger of Bethlehem. Sence Miss Frances went to 
live wid de angels, we ain’t had nobody to tell us ’bout 
de Christ chile, lak she uster tell us. 

“I tried to make de best of hit, for de chillun’s sake, 
but Christmus sho’ ain’t what hit uster be,” she con- 
tinued, heaving a deep sigh. 

“Kin you ’member de time, honey, when we uster 
have do dog irons piled clean up to de top wid wood, 
an’ how you and Zan uster ride on dat big iron shovel, 
playin’ lak hit wuz er stage coach an’ dat Zan wuz de 
driver?” asked Aunt Tilda, who more than once dried 
her tear-stained eyes, while Aunt Patience was talking. 
‘‘You sho’ did have to hold on mighty tight when Zan 
went er-gallopin’ ’cross the kitchen flo’, ’tendin’ dat 
he wuz tryin’ to git erway from de stage robbers an’ 
not carin’ what he runned over, an’ how you’d fall off 
an’ hurt yoursef. Once in erwhile you an’ Zan would 
load up de shovel wid sweet ’taters what Mammy Mary 
wuz er roastin’ in de hot ashes, Zan ’tendin’ lak de 
shovel wuz er steamboat cornin’ down de river wid er 
big load er freight, you actin’ lak jmu wuz de pilot an’ 
er whistlin’ when you wanted de boat to land. No, 
indeed, honey, I ain’t forgot how you two uster git dem 
tongs over dere, leanin’ ’ginst de jam, an’ when you 
wuzn’t careful you’d raise er blood blister on yer fin- 
gers by gittin’ ’em caught an’ pinched when you’d shut 
em up ; den Mammy Mary would kiss de little so’ finger 
an’ tie hit up wid turpentine an’ sugar, whilst you wuiz 
er tellin’ her dat de ole man tongs, wid his long legs 
an’ short neck an’ shoulders, wuz er winkin’ dat one eye 
of his’n at you. Yassum, dat’s de truth; dem days de 
dog irons wuz piled up wid wood cut from de black 
jack an’ white oak, wid er big hick’ry back log what 
would burn all night, an’ de next mornin’ de kitchen 
would be so nice an’ warm dat you’d alius Avant IMammy 
Mary to let you have yer breakfust dere, sittin’ in her 
lap in front of de fire, kase you uster lak to sit dere 
an’ watch de blaze an’ de sparks. Many is de time 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 97 

dat I’se dim chunked up de fire on purpose fer to make 
hit sparkle, whilst you’d sit dere an’ clap yer little 
hail’s an’ laugh an’ tell me dat you wanted to see some 
mo’ sparks fiy up de chimly. Den after you’d have 
yo’ breakfust you’d come wid yer little white apron 
full er ches’nuts an’ ask me to roast ’em fer you in 
front of de fire. Ef we’d fiirgit to cut de hulls, dey’d 
pop lak r pistol — den dere’d be er scatterin’ of nuts an’ 
hot ashes an’ chillun. Has yer fur got when yer big 
brothers would come home from de college fer to spen’ 
Christmus wid you all, an’ how dey’d all gather ’roun’ 
an’ watch me an’ Aunt Patience make animal cakes for 
you chillun ?” 

“I tell you, Miss Sammie, Mis ole kitchen jes’ seemed 
lak .er Paradise in dem days, when you wuz all er 
livin’ an’ happy,” said Aunt Patience, closing the oven 
door and resting her elbow on the arm of my rocker. 
‘"I does all I kin to make my chillun an’ my gran’-chil- 
lun happy when Christmus time comes, kase I knows 
dat hit means more to ’em den any other time of de 
year, an’ so I jes’ turns ’em loose an’ lets ’em do as 
dey please. Christmus don’t come but once er year 
nohow, an’ I b’lieve in lettin’ de .chillun, as well as 
de grown folks, have all de fun dey kin, long as dey 
don’t meddle wid powder an’ git hurt. Las’ Christmus 
some of de chillun corned mighty nigh git tin’ kilt, an’ 
fer dat reason I don’t ’low to let ’em git, dere ban’s 
on no rale gunpowdeat* ef I kin help it. Yassum, dat’s 
as true as yer live, kase las’ Christmus Caleb had some 
powder in de satchel what I made him out’n bedtickin’, 
what, he had hung so high dat he didn’t think none of 
de chillun could reach hit. But Grover Clevelan’ dumb 
up on de bedpos’ an’ stole de flask what had de powder 
in hit ; den him an’ er passel of de udder chillun went 
down to de new ground an’ built er fire bellin’ er big 
stump. While Grover wuz er pourin’ powder on de 
live coals, fer to see hit flash, de blaze runned up in 
de flask an’ busted hit. I heard de ’sploshun clear up 


98 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


here in de kitchen, an’ when I got to whar de chillun 
wuz, Grover wuz er rollin’ in de grass an’ er hollerin’ 
dat he dnn burnt his eyes clean out’n his hade. Hit 
sho’ did come mighty nigh bein’ de truth, kase de whole 
side of his face wuz scorched an’ burnt wid de powder, 
an’ one eye was mbs’ put out. For more’n er month 
dat boy couldn’t open dat eye, let erlone seein’ out’n hit, 
an’ his eyebrows an’ eyelashes ain’t growed back yit. 

“I certainly does hate to spile dere fun, but dis year ] 
I ’lows to watch ’em an’ see dat dey don’t get into i 
no mischief, kase chillun ain’t got no use er handlin’ I 
powder nohow. Ef we had er — come here. Miss Sam- 
mie, an’ see Marse John out yonder, flxin’ to take er 
picture of Baby Clintoa in de baby buggy. I tell you, 
honey, he’s plumb foolish ’bout dat chile, an’ ef he’s 
taken dat baby’s picture once in de las’ week, he’s 
taken fifty of ’em. Yassum, dat’s so; hit’s bin er long ^ 
time sence Marse John wuz on Briers, an’ de fust day 
he wuz here he gits his cam’ra an’ goes out by Aunt | 
Tilda’s cabin, fer to take er picture of er lot er ole 
turkey buzzards roostin’ in er tree. When I ask him | 
what he wanted wid er picture lak dat, de tears corned 
in his eyes when he told me dat he’d bin out on de 
plains fer more’n twenty years, ’mongst de cowboys ; 
an’ Injuns, an’ he ’lowed dem ole turkey buzzards wuz 
de fust ones_ dat he’d seen sence he lef ’ de South. De 
next day, when he showed me de picture what he took, 
he said dat he wuz er gwine to send hit to ‘Rattlesnake 
Pete’ an’ tell him dat dey wtiz wild turkeys, but I 
reckon he’ll know dat no wild turkeys wouldn’t ’low 
him to git dat close to ’em.” 

It was, indeed, a merry party that returned from the 
swamps about 2 o’clock that afternoon, the darkies 
having two big wagons piled high with fragrant green- 
ery. Nowhere else is Christmas decoration such an 
easy, inexpensive thing as in the dear old Southland, 
where can be found whole forests of pine and cedar, 
holly and mistletoe, all to be had simply for the gath- 
ering. 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


99 


“I'se got er whole barrel full of pecans, lots of hick’ry 
nuts an’ walnuts, an’ mos’ er cotton basket full of 
ripe ’simmons,” remarked Aunt Caroline, who was as- 
sisting Aunt Patience in cutting the animal cakes, while 
Lucetta, Parralee and Adaline were placing them in 
broad, flat pans, baking them a nice golden brown be- 
fore putting them in the wooden trays to cool and be- 
come crisp and brittle. Among them were, some cut in 
the shape of rabbits, others like cows, sheep, horses and 
miniature dolls, or ‘‘little men an’ women,” as the pick- 
aninnies styled them. 

“I tell you. Miss Sammie, dese chillun sho’ will have 
er feast to-morrow, when we sets dis big tray of cakes 
an’ all dem nuts an’ ’simmons out under de trees an’ 
we tells ’em dey kin hep derselves,” remarked Aunt 
Patience, as she watched a little darkey creep und,er 
the table and pick up a piece of cake dough that had 
fallen on the floor. 

“What are you doing now — picking another turkey?” 
I asked, as I walked over to where Aunt Tilda was 
sitting in front of the big, open fireplace. 

“No, indeed, honey ; Fse jes’ ’tendin’ to dese here tur- 
key wings whilst dey am er dryin’,” she answered, as 
she arose and procured a rocker for me. “You see, 
honey, dey won’t keep dere shape less’n I has heavj^ 
smoothin’ irons on ’em an’ keeps ’em' spreaded out till 
dey gits sot an’ purty nigh dry. I’se got eight now, 
’sides dese here two turkey tails, what’s spread out 
jes’ lak dey is when Mister Gobbler am er struttin’. 
Yassum, dey makes better fans den de wings, kase 
dey’s broader an’ makes mo’ breeze, an’ when dey gits 
good an’ dry I’se gwine to ask Miss Genie to give me 
some of dat red calico, what wuz lef’ over from border- 
ing dat new quilt, to bind de bone en’s wid; den I’ll 
make er loop on each one, for to hang ’em on de arm, 
so we won’t have to tote ’em in our ban’s when we 
goes to church. I don’t ’low dat dey’ll look nice as 
dese sto’ boughten fans lak Miss Genie buys when she 


100 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


goes to Natchez, but when fly time comes an’ hit com- 
mences to git real warm, dey sho’ will make er breeze 
an’ cool er pusson off quick, an’ dere ain’t nothin’ what 
k4n beat ’em when de chuch am crowded with niggers, 
all er-shoutin’ an’ er-sweatin’ at de same time.” 

“You Christopher Napoleon !” shouted Aunt Pa- 
tience, “ef you don’t stop er-hittin’ dat chile in de face 
wid dat bunch of gobbler w^hiskers, tr;ydn’ to put his 
eyes out, I’se er gwine to ’port you to Marse Frank 
a^’ tell him not^ to give you no firecrackers. Ef you 
don’t ’have yerself, Santa Claus ain’t er gwine to fetch 
you nothin’ but er five-eent bag er candy an’ er bundle 
of switches, an’ he won’t even leave you de candy ef I 
tells him what er mean boy you is. Make haste, boy, 
an’ shoo dat baby back befo’ he crawls out’n de door! 
Ef you don’t stop er-fillin’ yer mouth full er dat dough, 
an’ watch dat chile, I’se er gwine to lock you up in 
the smokehouse till after New Year’s, now you mind 
what I tells you.” 

For a long time I sat chatting pleasantly with Aunt 
Tilda, watching her as she turned and dried the tur- 
key wings, laughing heartily at her quaint way of tell- 
ing how much things had changed “sence befo’ de war.” 

“I don’t know how to ’count fer hit,” she said, “but 
befo’ de war, when yer ma uster raise more’n er hun- 
dred turkeys ev’ry summer, de gobblers uster weigh 
’tween thirty-five an’ forty pounds when dey wuz ready 
to kill, but dey don’t weigh dat much now. Yassum, dey 
sho’ wuz monsters, an’ de wings — why honey, when dey’s 
spread out dey makes more of er breeze den dat ’lectric 
fan what Marse Frank wuz er tellin’ me dat he’s got 
in his office in Cairo. I heard Marse John tellin’ Aunt 
Patience dat turkeys wuz er sellin’ for 30 cents er 
pound out whar he’s bin, but nobody ’round here ain’t 
er gwine to pay more’n six bits fer er turkey, an’ dey’s 
got to be big ones to fetch dat much. De ones w^hat — 
come in here, Zeke, an’ let Miss Sammie see how tall 
y oil’s growed. Yassum, dat’s my gran’son, what I told 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


101 


you wuz er cornin’ down from Memphis. He sho’ did 
fetch me er lot er nice things fer Christmas, an’ his 
wife brimg me er big, warm shawl dat’s jes’ what I 
needs to fling ’round my shoulders when I gits up dese 
chilly mornin’s.” 

“Is dis de same Miss Sammie I uster see on Briers, 
wearin’ short dresses an’ alius up to some mischief?” 
asked Zeke, as he stood by the side of Aunt Tilda’s 
chair, his hand resting affectionately on her stooped 
shoulders. “You sho’ has changed sence I las’ saw you, 
an’ I never would er ’knowed you ef I had er seed you 
in Memphis. Yassum, I alius makes hit er rule to come 
an’ see Granny ev’ry Christmus, an’ dis time I fetched 
my wife erlong. De boss at de sto’ whar I wucks didn’t 
want to let me off till Christmus mornin’, but when I 
told him ’bout Granny an’ how she had raised me, an’ 
dat she wuz mos’ 90 years old now, he told me to go 
’long an’ have er good time. I’se bin er-tryin’ fer de 
las’ two years to git Granny to go to Memphis an’ stay 
dere er month er so an’ den come back to Briers, but 
she ’lows dat hit’s too big er place for her an’ dat she’d 
git los’ befo’ she wuz dere er day.” 

“You jes’ oughter see de big sack full er firewucks 
dat Zeke brung for de chillun,” interrupted Aunt Tilda, 
laughing and chuckling gleefully. “He fetched er 
gunnysack full er nothin’ but firecrackers an’ dese here 
spinnin’ wheels what sizzles an’ makes er lot er fuss, 
but I sho’ does lak to watch dem skyrockets what goes 
clear up to de clouds an’ den busts, scatterin’ dem 
lovely sparks of different colors, kase dey ’minds mo 
of de time when de stars fell. Yassum, I sho’ does 
’member dat time, when ole missus an’ all de niggers 
fell down on dere knees an’ prayed loud as dey could, 
beggin’ de Lawd to save ’em, kase dey thought dat de 
wor?' wuz er-comin’ to er end. I tell you, IMiss Sam- 
mie, I don’t want to see nothin’ mb’ lak dat, an’ I don’t 
reckon I ever will till de great judgment day comes an’ 
IMarse Gabriel blows his trumpet an’ dese old dry bones 
will rise ergin.” 


102 DO WN ON THE OLD PLANTATION". 

When the preparations for the Christmas feast were 
finally completed, the servants retired to their quar- 
ters, not to sleep, however, but to make merry the 
whole night. Soon after it became dark, numerous 
bonfires were lighted at intervals between the cabins, 
while the darkies, old and young, gathered around 
them, all in their best clothing, some of the women 
dressed in bright red, while others appeared in gay 
stripes and plaids, wearing gaudy beads around their 
necks and bright-colored ribbon bow3 on their heads. 
Not to the small boy alone, but to the negro of all 
ages, was it a time for general rejoicing. From their 
snug log cabins, made bright by the burning of pine 
knots piled high in the open fireplaces, came the sounds 
of laughter and shutfling and tramping of feet, mingled 
with the merry strains of the violin and banjo, while on 
the doorsteps, in scanty apparel and barefooted, sat a 
number of the little pickaninnies munching Christmas 
sweets, blissfully content and watching with great de- 
light their elders make merry. 

Thus the time passed until midnight, when those who 
had fallen asleep were awakened by the unearthly din 
of horns, the rattling of cow-bells and the beating of 
tin-pans. The shouts of the men and boys, together 
with the blare of trumpets and the clanging of bells, 
made the night one long to be remembered by those 
who heard it. Around and around the cabins the dar- 
kies marched, and well the dwellers therein knew what 
it meant. It was to bring the glad tidings that Christ- 
mas was at hand, and that a score or more of the lively, 
adventurous darkies on the plantation were giving 
them an old-fashioned serenade. The good wife got 
up and donned the clothing which had scarcely been 
abandoned for the night, getting out huge loaves of 
ginger bread and pitchers and jugs filled with per- 
simmon beer, as well as large trays of roasted chestnuts, 
peanuts and popcorn. 

While these preparations were being made, the noise 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


103 


grew more and more intense, until a friendly light 
streamed through the cabin door, as it was thrown 
wide open and the crowd invited in. It was a pic- 
turesque and formidable looking group, for each and 
every one wore masks, some of which were exceedingly 
comical, while others had simply cut eyeholes in their 
red bandanas, a number having used the paint brush so 
liberally that they resembled fiat-nosed Indians. After 
partaking of the refreshments, the happy serenaders 
wished their host and hostess a Merry Christmas, then 
hurried away to the next cabin, where the same per- 
formance was repeated. 

Woe is the darkey who remains in bed and fails to 
show his face to his Christmas eve serenaders. He may, 
in that case, on Christmas morning, find his front gate 
half a mile or more from his cabin, in the middle of 
the big road, or the wheels of his wagon swinging from 
the top branches of a tall post oak or black jack tree. 
In this manner passed the night before Christmas, and 
the dawn brings the gladdest day of the year. A sort 
of sacred atmsophere seems to pervade it ; the sunshine 
has a delicious golden quality and by a rare chance, 
perhaps, there is an exhilirating frosty tinge to the air, 
but nothing more of that nature to tell that this gayest 
time comes during the winter king’s reign. 

The morning passed away in Christmas jollity — then 
came the dinner, for a plantation Christmas dinner is in- 
deed a feast fit for the gods. The long table, capable 
of seating thirty or more, fairly groans ’neath its 
weight of good things, consisting of well-roasted tur- 
keys, their breasts fairly bulging out with rich oyster 
dressing; in the center of the table is a plump, half- 
grown pig, roasted whole, stuffed with nut dressing, 
holding a big, red apple in its mouth and surrounded 
by a pyramid of richly-browned sweet yellow yam 
potatoes for which the Briers plantation is noted. 
There were also served all kinds of vegetables, fruits 
and nuts, for they have only to visit their own cellar, 


104 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


dairy, smokehouse, orchard and garden to prepare a 
meal fit to serve a king. After these courses were 
served, the servants cleared the table, bringing in bowls 
of ambrosia, boiled custard, sillabub and old-fashioned 
pound cake like our grandmothers used to make, which 
when sliced resembled bars of gold, and last, but not 
least, was the mound of cranberries and a huge plum 
pudding. 

It was indeed a merry party that was seated around 
the bountifully spread banquet table. After much jest- 
ing and laughter, they at last finished the meal, after 
which it is a wonder that all festivities did not cease 
from sheer inability of the participants to exert them- 
selves 'further. 

Christmas night came on with its brilliancy and noise, 
the older of the young people getting together at some 
designated cabin to dance and keep time to the gay 
music, while the younger ones played games by the 
light of the bonfires, watching the skyrockets, Roman 
candles and other fireworks, while the tiny pickanin- 
nies amused themselves by shooting firecrackers which 
were lighted for them by their elders. Thus is Christ- 
mas celebarted on a Mississippi plantation. 


Thanksgiving in Dixieland 


Standing ’neath the silver-leaved poplars that lined 
the board walk leading to the old-fashioned garden on 
the Briers plantation, I could scarcely realize that the 
summer had bidden us farewell and gone her way 
along the dim-lighted path leading to the shadowy past. 
From the open kitchen windows near where I stood, 
delicious billows of warm air gushed forth, scenting the 
soft November breeze with the odor of onions, sage and 
thyme, the appetizing fragrance of crisping fat and the 
caramel perfume of baking sweet potatoes. On the 
broad window sill I noticed two or three rows of rich 
pumpkin pies, immense loaves of spongy gingerbread 
and a huge mold of cranberries, all cooling for the 
morrow’s Thanksgiving feast. The big yard was sweet 
and spicy with the chrysanthemums, tansy, fennel, 
mint and sweet bazil, over all of which lazily droned a 
few bees that had ventured from their hives under the 
chinaberry trees, lured outside by the midday warmth 
of the mellow sunshine and fragrant breeze. A few 
sturdy prince feathers lifted their crimson heads, bow- 
ing gayly to the stately hollyhocks that bordered the 
lower edge of the yard. Lucetta, the housemaid, with 
a song on her lips, was lustily -vyielding the broom and 
duster, making the house clean and sweet from cellar 
to garret, while a dozen or more of the plantation picka- 
ninnies, under the watchful eye of Uncle Jack, were 
busily engaged in raking up and burning the crimson 
and yellow autumn leaves which were fast. leaving the 
stately old oaks bare and bleak. All were merry and 
frolicsome in anticipation of the good things they would 
have at the morrow’s feast, so much so that many times 
Uncle Jack admonished them to '' ’have yerselves an’ 
clean ervray dem leaves off’n de lawn, an’ stop foolin’ 
de time erway.” 


106 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

“Come in de kitchen — ain’t you lonesome out dere, 
honey?” remarked Aunt Patience, the cook, upon seeing* 
me in the yard. “I thought maybe you’d lak to come 
in de kitchen an’ watch Aunt Mary, Sis’ Calline an’ me 
cookin’ all de good things what we’se ’parin’ for de 
company what’s er cornin’ on de Betsy tomorrow fer 
to spen’ Thanksgivin’ wid Marse Frank. Lawdy, honey, 
don’t ax me who all’s er cornin’, kase I can’t begin to 
tell you ; but I heard Miss Genie say dat we could count 
fer sure on Cap’n Euj^ible an’ his three daughters. 
Mister Will Dicks an’ his wife an’ chillun, Marse 
Albert’s old friend, IMister Pardee ; Governor Chamber- 
lain, an’ I can’t begin to tell you who all else. I reckon 
dat de kin folks from New .Orleans is er cornin’ too, but 
I’se dun ’pared for ’em all, an’ ef I do says hit myself, 
dere won’t be no finer dinner set on no table in Missis- 
sippi den’ll be found right here on old Briers’, in de 
dinin’-room. 

“You niggers hurrj^ an’ polish up dat silver till you 
kin see yer black, shiny faces in hit, an’ stop er fussin’ 
over who’s er gwine ter sop dis cake pan when I rakes 
de batter out’n hit,” continued Aunt Patience, wiping 
her hands on the big gingham apron that covered her 
white skirt. “Ef you chillun don’t ’have yerselves, I 
ain’t er gwine to let nary one of you sop dis pan, now 
you hear what I say. Parralee, you take dat big pan 
er potlicker an’ break up er pone er cornbread in hit, 
an’ take out to dem chillun what’s bin er rakin’ up 
leaves sence sun up dis mornin’. Here, take ’em dis 
big plate er sweet ’taters, too, kase I specks dem 
niggers is mos’ starved. Make haste, now, chile, an’ 
run ’long wid hit while hit’s hot, den dey kin wuck 
better after dey gets filled up. 

“Yes, honey, as I wuz er sayin’, dere won’t be ik> finer 
dinner in de land den de one we’se er gwine to have, 
kase I’se got de fattest kind er turkeys, de juciest 
mince pies, an’ de nicest sweet apple cider an’ ’simmon 
beer, an’ sweet peach pickles, an’ chow-chow, all made 



You niggers hurry an’ polish up dat silver till you can see your 
black, shiny faces in hit.” 


108 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


right here on Briers. What’s dat you’se er sayin’ ’bout 
de pure food law? No, indeed, honey, we ain’t bothered 
’bout no food laws, kase Marse Frank has ev’rything 
dat we eats raised right here under his eyes, an’ he 
knows what he’s eatin’, an’ yer don’t ketch him ‘’er 
eatin’ at no -hotel, less’n he’s travelin’ somewhere. Ef 
he — You Christopher Napoleon, ef you don’t stop er 
chunkin’ dat rooster an’ git to wuck, I’se gwine to 
blister dat black hide of yourn wid er boa’d, now you 
hear what I said, don’t yer? Hit jes’ seems lak de 
more wuck dere is to do, de more anxious you is fer to 
be er foolin’ yer time erway, chunkin’ dat rooster or 
sicin’ de dogs on Miss Genie’s calf. Look yonder — 
dere’s dat lazy Grover Cleveland er sittin’ on de fence, 
chawin’ sugar cane, lak dere warn’t nothin’ fer him to 
do. Never mind, bo}^; Uncle Jack’ll see you ’rectly an’ 
make you come down off’n dat perch, now you mind 
what I say.” 

“Here, honey, I’se brung you er glass er ’simmon beer 
an’ er slice of ginger-bread,” said Aunt Mary, placing 
a plate before me on the Qlean, uncovered kitchen table. 
“No’am, I ain’t furgot how you uster lak hit, an’ I ’lows 
dat yer taste ain’t changed. Me an’ Aunt Patience 
made dis beer, an’ I knows dat you’ll lak hit. Yassum, 
we had ’Lias fetch us er big cotton basket full of nice, 
ripe ’simmons, an’ den we baked er whole lot er little 
stringy sweet ’taters what we could bake^clear through ; 
den we got er big, clean barrel an’ put 'down er layer 
of de hard baked ’taters ; den er layer of ’simmons, till 
we dun filled de barrel two-thirds full ; den we poured 
clear spring water on hit till de barrel wuz full. After 
dat we tied er thick cloth over de top of de barrel, 
makin’ hit air tight, an’ left hit to ferment an’ wuck 
itself into beer. We knowed dat hit would be ready 
fer Thanksgivin’, kase we makes er barrel or two of it 
ev’ry year, an’ we knows jes’ how long hit’ll take befo’ 
it’s fitten to drink. I’se mighty glad dat you laks hit, 
honey, kase you uster be povv^erful fond of hit when 
you wuz er growin’ up.” 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


109 


'‘Aren’t you getting rather old to be doing this kind 
of work without glasses?” I asked Aunt Tilda, who 
was seated in an old wooden rocker in one corner of 
the kitchen, cutting carpet rags and sewing them 
together, winding them into huge balls, to be woven 
later into a carpet*.. 

“Why, la, honey, I ain’t never had er pair of specks 
'on my eyes in my born days,” she answered. ”No’am, 
I don’t need no specks, kase I alius gits some of de 
chillun, or de women what’s got good eyes, to thread 
my needle for me, an’ den I gits ’long fine. Yassum, 
I’se er gwine to finish dis carpet in time fer Christmus, 
kase my gran’son an’ his wife is er cornin’ down from 
IMemphis, fer to spend Christmus wid me, an’ I’se er 
gwine to have de cabin er shinin’ wid er new rag carpet.. 
You see, honey, I took Zeke when his.mother died, when 
he wuz jes’ er week old, an’ raised him, an’ he’s alius 
said dat he wuz er gwine to pay me fer his raisin’, ef 
he could do so an’ I lived long ’nough. Las’ Christmus 
he brung me er woolen cloak what covers me all over, 
’sides er woolen shawl an’ er scarf fer to wear over my 
hade, an’ ev’ry Christmus he sen’s me er heap er nice 
things. You see. Miss Sammie, he’s de porter in er big 
sto’ in Memphis, an’ de head porter at dat, an’ dey pays 
him er big salary. His wife takes in washin’ an’ dey 
both makes money, an’ dat’s why dey ain’t stingy wid 
me. Dey’s both bin after me fer to live wid ’em, but, la, 
chile, I’d be jes’ lak er fish out’n de water in er big place 
lak dey say Memphis is. No’am, I ain’t never sot foot 
off n dis here plantashun in nigh on to sixty years, an’ 
ef de good Lawd so wills, I’se er gwin to stay an’ be 
buried right over yonder under dat sycamo’ tree whar 
Jackson, my ole man, has bin er restin’ for more’n 
twenty years. How ole am I? Well, honey, I ain’t sho’ 
about my age, but I reckon dat I’se about ninety years 
old, kase my young missus tole me dat I wuz fifty de 
year after de surrender, an’ dat would make me mighty 
high on to ninety, wouldn’t hit ?” 


110 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


Stopping in the midst of her work, the faithful old 
servant rested her black, hardened hands on her lap 
and began crooning an old favorite song: 

“111 soon be jined to my chillun, 

When de judgment day comes on; 

For Gawdll be good to po’ old Tilda, 

When Gabriel is er blowin' his ho’n.” 

After singing for a few minutes, she looked up and- 
I could see that the tears were not far away. 

“Yassum, I’se dun outlived all twelve of my chil- 
lun,” she continued, “an’ I’se seen many of my gran’- 
chillun an’ greatgran’-chillun laid out yonder in de ole 
plantashun graveyard, but I reckon dat hit won’t be 
long now till de folks lays mv po’ ole bones out dar wid 
de res’.” 

“Dar you go ergin. Aunt Tilda, talkin’ ’bout dyin’, 
when you knows dat you’s good fer to live to be er 
hundred, an’ may be more’n dat,” said Aunt Patience. 
“Marse Frank has told you dat he heard dat yo’ mother 
lived fer to be er hundred an’ ten, an’ why shouldn’t 
you do de same? You’s bin er talkin’ ’bout dyin’ for 
de las’ twenty years, an’ you ain’t gone yit. I kin 
’member de time, all of fifteen years ergo, when you 
bought er pair of white stockin’s wid de Christmus 
money what Marse Frank gin you, sayin’ dat you wuz 
er gwine to lay ’em erway fer to be laid out an’ buried 
in, an’ I ’lows dat dem stockin’s is dun et up by de 
moths by dis time.” 

“No, dem stockin’s wuzn’t et up by de moths,” inter- 
rupted Aunt Tilda, “for when po’ Julia Jenkins died las’ 
year, wid hardly er stitch of clothes to her back an’ 
leavin’ nothin’ but er triflin’, no ’count husband an 
er whole passel of half -clothed chillun, I took dem 
stockin’s over to her cabin an’ put ’em on her, an’ dey 
wuzn’t moth-eaten, either. Dey wuz jes’ as nice as dey 
wuz de day I bought ’em from dat ole peddler what 
corned ’long here wid his pack on his back.” 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. Ill 

Rocking back and forth, Aunt Tilda again com- 
menced to sing, in her high-pitched treble : 

‘T don't want no money; all I wants is love; 

Kase I draws my rations from erbove.” 

'"Yassum, I sho’ does feel tired an’ tuckered out,” 
remarked Aunt Patience, taking a seat on the edge of 
the woodbox. ‘T’se got mos’ ev’ry thing done what 1 
kin do today, an’ I’se bin as busy as er bee sence day- 
light dis mornin’. I’se got all my pumpkin pies an’ 
cookies baked, an’ ev’rything else ’pared dat I kin fix, 
so’s to have ’em ready to put in de oven in de mornin’. 
After dat’s dun, I won’t have nothin’ much to do but to 
fix de stuffin’, cook er few vegetables an’ do er few other 
little things, such as makin’ de ambrosia an’ de biled 
custard, an’ by twelve o’clock tomorrow you’ll see de 
fines’ dinner in de Ian’, all er settin’ on de table in de 
dinin’-room, ready fer de company.” 

I was aroused bright and early the next morning by' 
the hurry and bustle of the house servants, as they 
moved rapidly about, here, there, everywhere. Before 
I left my room, I could hear ’Lias talking to Lucetta, 
telling her that she had forgotten to put the ribbon 
bows on the fresh-laundered curtains in the parlor. 

^‘Dat’s true, ’Lias, I dun furgot ’em. My hade is sure 
turned wrong side out dis mornin’, wid all dis here 
fixin’ an’ stewin’ ’round, gittin’ ready for de Thanks- 
givin’ dinner,” she exclaimed. 

About ten o’clock, Uncle Jack appeared on the front 
porch, going to the end and standing upon the railing, 
that he might get a better view of the river. 

“I sho’ly did hear de whistle of de Betsy erwhile 
ergo,” he said, shading his eyes with his hand. ‘'She 
ain’t never bin er gittin’ here befo; ’leven or twelve 
o’clock, an’ sometimes hit’s way late in de afternoon, 
l)ut dat sho’ wuz her whistle.” 

‘‘Here comes de Betsy, Miss Sammie— she’s er- 
comin’!” shouted one of the little pickaninnies, ten 
minutes later, bounding into the middle of the kitchen. 


112 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION, 


“For de Lawd sake ! I wuzn't lookin’ fer de Betsy 
till ’bout noon,” exclaimed Aunt Patience, hastening to 
the kitchen window. “I reckon I’ll git»Aunt Tilda to 
stay here an’ w^atch ev’rything, whilst I goes down to 
de landin’ an’ see who gits off’n de boat.” 

For the next ten minutes there were fl.ying feet, as 
the darkies hurriedly put on their best clothing, one 
and all heading for the landing, to assist in extending 
a welcome to the visitors and to “tote” any baggage 
they might have. 

When the Bets}^ Ann came into view from around the 
drooping willows in the bend, and blew her shrill 
whistle, the darkies sent up a ringing cheer, even the 
little pickanninnies forgetting for the time being their 
mud balls and joining in the welcome. 

“I see Miss Louise an’ Miss Evah an’ dere ma, cornin’ 
down de stairway,” shouted Lucetta, edging her way to 
the front of the crojwd and clapping her hands with 
delight. “I wonder ef Miss Louise furgot to bring dem 
blue chany beads what she said she’d bring me when 
she corned ergin. Yas, dat’s Miss Evah, wavin’ to 
Marse Frank. I hope she didn’t furgit dat red iribbon 
what she promised me, fer to pin in my hair. Howdy 
do. Miss Louise ! Howdy do. Miss Evah ! Don’t you 
give dat package to none of de udder niggers, kase I 
wants to tote it to de house myself.” 

“Ah, ha! Bar’s Marse Jeems! De las’ time he wuz 
here I gin him er dollar an’ asked him fer to bring 
me one of dem red checked vests lak de city niggers 
am er-wearin 1” cried a young negro boy, who was just 
beginning to court the dusky lassies on the plantation. 

“I wonder ef dat man wid de plug hat is er gwine to 
git off here ?” questioned one of the darkies. 

‘AYIiv, sho’l Don’t, you know who dat is? Dat’s 
Governor Chamberlain, what corned all de way down 
here from Oregon,” answered Aunt Mary. “ ’Cou’se 
he’s gwine to git off — didn’t you hear ]\Iiss Genie tell 
us er week ergo dat Marse Frank got er letter from 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


113 


him, an’ dat he wuz er-comin’ to spen’ Thanksgivin’ on 
Briers ? I knowed de Governor when he wuzn’t nothin’ 
but er little bit of er baby, an he wuz dat smart when 
he wuz er goin’ to school in Natchez dat mos’ ev’rybody 
’lowed dat he’d be President of de United States some 
day.” 

It was indeed a merry party that stood on the river 
bank and watched the Betsy Ann back out into the 
stream, the pilot more than once tooting the whistle 
in acknowledgment of the cheering and shouting from 
whites and blacks alike. When the boat turned and 
was well under way, the entire party proceeded on 
foot to the house, Governor Chamberlain and the host 
walking arm in arm and leading the gay procession, in 
whose wake came the darkies, to the number of 300, 
some laughing, others singing, but all in their usual 
happy mood. 

At 1 o’clock the guests assembled in the parlor and 
formed the grand march for the dining-room. Upon 
entering the room, which was profusely decorated with 
crimson autumn foliage, great feathery sprays of yellow 
golden rod and other fragrant flowers, festooned with 
bright-colored ribbons, they were greeted by the voices 
of an impromptu quartet singing, “Dixie.” 

For more than a month ’Lias, the houseman, had 
kept in training a goodly number of the darkies who 
were musically inclined, nearly all of whom possessed 
violins, guitars, mandolins, trombones or banjos. 
Among the number were a few who were so well versed 
in the picking of the banjo that they could have earned 
good salaries on the vaudeville stage. While the guests 
were enjoying the spread prepared by the well-trained 
and faithful hands of the old household servants, this 
improvised orchestra, stationed behind a great bank of 
yellow, red and white chrysanthemums, dispensed melo- 
dies, interspersed at frequent intervals with familiar 
plantation songs. 

After partaking of the feast the guests scattered 


114 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


about the roomy old plantation house and grounds, 
some out under the shady live oaks, all covered with 
their autumn dress of clinging crimson ivy, some occu- 
pying comfortable rockers on the broad verandas, while 
a few of the gentlemen adjourned to the host’s private 
den to enjoy their cigars. 

I had entered |he parlor and was enjoying the music 
drawn from the old-fashioned square piano, whose tone 
seemed to be mellowed instead of lessened by the many 
years of usage, when I noticed Aunt Patience motioning 
for me. Proceeding to the kitchen with her, she as- 
sailed me Avith numerous questions, asking: 

“Did de Governor lak de dinner, honey? Didn’t I 
tell you dat I wuz er gwine to set de fines’ dinner what 
wuz ever serA^ed on dis plantashun? I knowed dat he’d 
lak dat turkey, kase dem birds has bin in de pens fer 
nigh onto three Aveeks an’ ’Lias er stuffin’ ’em Avid all 
dey could eat; den I had de breas’s er stickin’ out 
Avid de oyster dressin’, an’ ef I does say hit, dey couldn’t 
er bin cooked no nicer den dey avuz. Yassum, dere’s 
plenty for all de colored folks to have dere share, an’ 
dere ain’t nothin’ dat er* nigger laks better ’n turkey, 
less’n hit’s er fat ’possum, er sAvimmin’ in rich graA^y, 
wid er lot er sAveet yaller yams. From de Avay dat 
dey all laughed an’ talked whilst dey avuz at de table 
I knoAved dat dey avuz enjoyin’, dereselves.” 

Who. could not be happy, living on this old planta- 
tion, Avliose fields are the richest and most fertile to 
be found throughout all our beautiful Southland, with' 
its restful, charming, healthful climate? I thought it 
no Avonder that the darkeys ahvays seemed happy and 
contented, going about their Avork Avith song and merry 
laughter, for some are there to-day who have never 
gone out of sight of the cabin homes in Avhich they 
were born. 

Going out on the broad veranda, I looked across the 
higliAvay to the fern-decked levee, with here and there 
a giant oak, some draped with Avild grapes, some Avith 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


115 


flaming ivy or Virginia creeper, while at its edge 
flowed the muddy, turbulent old Mississippi river, bor- 
dered with a few sycamores, now and then a stately 
elm, or a clump of low, bending willows. Above and 
beyond this beautiful scene was the sunbrightened blue 
sky, bending over all like a benediction. 


The Trials of a Darky Schoolma’am 


“You Christopher Napoleon!” shouted Aunt Patience, 
standing in the door of the kitchen on the Briers plan- 
tation, “ef you an’ dat Grover Clevelan’ don’t stop 
er tormentin’ dat po’ old half starved, mangy, flea- 
bitten dog, an’ go on to school, I’se er gwine to wear 
you out wid dis broom handle, now you hear me, don’t 
you? You seed me set dat pan out dere, so dat dog 
could git er drink, an’ dere you’s gone an’ upset hit 
■ jes’ fer pure meanness. How’d you lak to be treated 
dat way, ef you wuz er dog ?” 

Turning to me. Aunt Patience said: “Dat po’ dog 
acts lak he ain’t had nothin’ to eat sence las’ Christmus, 
and’ I reckon de only vittels dat he gits is what he steals 
from udder people’s dogs an’ cats.” 

“You Christopher Napoleon!” again shouted Aunt 
Patience, “ef you don’t come down out’n dat tree an’ 
go *on to school, an’ quit fillin’ yo’ pockets wid dem 
chaneyberries, I’ll take dis here buggy whip an’ wear 
hit out on yo’ back, you young scamp! You’d better 
come down out’n dat tree, kase ef Marse Albert ketches 
you up dere, breakin’ de limbs off, you won’t look lak 
de same boy when he gits through wid you. Jes’ look 
at dem new books what yer ma bought for you las’ 
week, lyin’ dere in dat wet grass. Ef you two niggers 
ain’t ernuff to drive er pusson plumb ’stracted, I don’t 
know who is.” 

“I didn’t know that they had a colored school on the 
plantation since the teacher quit a month or so ago,” I 
remarked, as Aunt Patience came up the steps. 

“Yassum,” she replied, watching the pickaninnies 
as they walked slowly toward the big gate, “dey’s 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 117 

got erimdder teacher an’ de school opened up las’ 
Chewsday. De teacher what dey had las’ fall got mad 
an’ went back to New Orleans whar she corned from, 
but dey’s hired ernudder one on trial.” 

“The other teacher seemed to be all right — what was 
the trouble with her?” 

“Me an’ Sis’ Calline ’lowed dat she wuz er mighty 
good teacher, but you see. Miss Sammie, niggers ain’t 
lak white folks, an’ dey never will be. Dat udder 
teacher wuz jes’ as nice as she could be, an’ she dun 
more’n any udder one we’se had to learn de chillun 
. some manners, as well as things out’n de books, but 
some of de niggers ’round here thought dey knowed 
more ’bout how to run de school den de teacher did.” 

”Do you think the one they have now will get along 
any better?” 

‘T don’t reckon she’ll stay more’n er week or so, kase 
Sis’ Lucy went over to de school house yistiddy an’ 
’gun to meddle wid her, an’ hit won’t take long to run 
her off ef Sis’ Lucy talks ’bout her lak she did wid 
de udder one what we had. For my part, I don’t care 
ef de school closes down altogether, kase I don’t b’lieve 
in eddycatin’ er nigger nohow. I b’lieves as Marse Al- 
bert do, dat er nigger’s made to wuck, an’ de minute 
you commences to eddycate ’em, you’s spilin’ ’em fer 
field ban’s. Look at dat nasty Toby Conger, what 
corned down here from Natchez, claimin’ dat he’d bin to 
college an’ knowed more’n all de white folks in Miss- 
issippi put together, an’ see what happened to him befo’ 
he’d bin here er week.” 

“Do you mean that stylish-looking fellow that got 
off the Betsy a week ago yesterday?” 

“Dat’s de one — dat’s him. All he wuz good fer wuz 
to lay ’round in de cabins, sparkin’ de young gals when 
dere parents wuz er wuckin’ in de fields, an’ teachin’ 
de chillun how to shoot craps, an’ we wuz all mighty 
glad when de sheriff corned erlong an’ took him back 


118 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

to Natchez an' locked him np in de jail fer stealin’ er 
woman's pocketbook.” 

“Perhaps they caught the wrong man.” I suggested. 

“No’am dey didn’t,” answered Aunt Patience, “kase 
de sheriff searched him de minute he laid ban’s on him, 
right befo’ Caleb an’ er lot of de field ban’s, an’ dere 
wuz de w'oman’s pocketbook an’ two of de rings what 
wuz in hit when he snatched hit erway from her. 
Maybe I'se wrong, but I ’lows dat hit’ll be er long 
time befo’ dat nigger’s eddycashun will git him outside 
dat jail.” 

“Tell me some more about the trouble with the 
teacher — what appears to be the matter with the one 
they have noAv?” 

“Well, Lucetta told me dat Sis’ Lucy went over to 
de school house yistiddy an’ ’gun to meddle wid her, 
tellin’ her how she should manage de chillun, an’ how 
to learn ’em, but — dat’s her cornin’ through de big gate 
now.” 

“Good mornin’, Miss Sammie! Mornin’, Aunt Pa- 
tience ! How’s Marse Albert’s foot ? Is he able to walk 
on hit dis mornin’?” questioned Lucy, as she entered 
the kitchen and handed Aunt Patience a quart bottle 
filled with turpentine. “One of my chillun told me 
yistiddy dat Marse Albert wuz er havin’ trouble wid his 
foot ergin, so I ’lowed I’d drop in on my way to de 
school house an’ leave dis here bottle of turpentine, 
kase hit sho’ will take de swellin’ out’n de leg ef he’ll 
rub hit in good an’ hard.” 

“Are you teaching over at the school house now?” I 
asked. ' 

“No’am, I ain’t teachin’,” she replied, taking a chair 
that Aunt Tilda offered her, “but I goes over dere once 
in er while, to see de teacher ’bout my two boys an’ 
my gal. I tell you. Miss Sammie, I don’t see er bit er 
sense in sendin’ chillun to dat school, kase dey ain’t 
er .teamin’ er thing what’s doin’ ’em good, but my old 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


119 


man lows dat hit’s better to send ’em an’ let ’em pick 
up what dey kin, ruther than havin’ ’em ’round de 
house, playin’ in de mud an’ chasin’ de chickens ’round 
de back yard. Yassum, dat’s de Gawd’s truth, kase dey 
might as well be at home, for all dey’s learnin’ dere. 
Dat teacher lets ’em play more’n half de time anyhow, 
’stead er teachin’ ’em something, an when dey ought 
to be er studyin’ dere lessons, she’s showin’ ’em how to 
put on airs an’ how to part dere hair on de side. She 
sent my boy, Fred Douglas, home yistiddy, wid er note, 
tellin’ me dat I should gin him er clean handkerchief 
ev ry mornin’, an’ not be er teachin’ him to wipe his 
nose on de sleeve of his coat, an’ dat’s what I’se er 
gwine over dere fer to see her ’bout now. We’se payin’ 
dat teacher thirty dollars er month for teachin’ fo’ or 
five hours ev’ry day, ’ceptin’ on Saturdays an’ Sundays, 
an’ here I is, wuckin’ from mornin’ till night an’ gittin’ 
nothin’ but de vittels I eats an de few rags what I has 
on my back. What I wants her to do is to take my 
boys an’ learn ’em dere A B C’s, jes’ lak I wuz taught, 
an’ not be er tryin’ to run ’em through de blue-back 
speller when dey don’t know one letter from ernudder. 

‘‘Ernudder thing she did — she sent word by Salina 
dat she wanted me to buy her ernudder reader, so she 
could go in de class wid de udder big gals, but I ain’t 
er gwine to buy narry nuther book for her till she 
learns what’s in de one she’s got. I’se already bought 
dat gal two new readers sence school opened, an’ dat’s 
enuff. I knows what dat teacher’s up to — she’s sellin’ 
dem books an’ makes er profit on ev’ry one she kin 
git de chillun to buy, dat’s what she’s er doin’. She’s 
de wust ” 

“Come here to de do’, IMiss Sammie, an’ watch Marse 
John er fixin’ to take dat chile’s fotygraf on dat dun- 
key’s back,” interrupted Aunt Tilda, pulling at my 
sleeve. “Ef dat chile falls off dere sho’ will be er 
fuirrel ’round here, kase dat dunkey’s prickin’ his ears 


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“Dey might as well be at home.” 



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DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


121 


back now^ an’ ef he takes er notion to kick, dere ain’t 
nothin’ dat’ll stop him, not even er stone wall. I never 
seed such er man as Marse John is fer takin’ pictures, 
an’ ef he pints dat cam’ra of his’n at you he’ll git you 
ef you’s on de udder side of de river.” 

“When I uster go to school,” continued Lucy, taking 
a couple of cookies out of the pan that Aunt Patience 
passed to her, '‘Sve’d leave de house ’rectly after sun 
up, an’ we never got back home till hit wuz most dark, 
an’ we never had no classes but de one in spellin’. What 
me an’ Sis’ Polly an’ Sis’ Jenkins wants dat teacher to 
do is to learn our chillun how to ligger an’ cipher on de 
blackboa’d, an’ not how to blow dere nose an’ part dere 
hair on de side of de hade. When I wuz er talkin’ wid 
her yistiddy, she ’lowed dat de oral ’rithmetic strength- 
ens de reasonin’ powers of de chile, but I up an’ told 
her dat I wanted my chillun to learn how to count from 
one up to er .hundred, an’ how much dey’d git fer fo’ 
dozen eggs ef dey wuz sellin’ at ten cents er dozen — 
dat’s all de ’rithmetic dey needs round here. Befo’ I 
left she told me dat she wanted to put Salina in de 
grammar class next fall, but you knows. Miss Sammie, 
dat Salina ain’t litten to go in dat class for er year or 
two yit, now is she? 

“When I went to school in Natchez we uster parse 
'One I love, two I love,’ an’ 'He loves’ an’ 'she loves,’ 
an’ er lot er nonsense lak dat, but all dat foolishness 
ain’t er gwine to do er chile no good on dis plantashun, 
is hit? De trouble wid dat teacher is dat she ’lows 
dem chillun tt) play too much, an’ ’stead er teachin’ ’em 
something what’ll do ’em some good, she’s fillin’ dere 
heads wid er lot er stuff what ain’t er gwine to do ’em 
er bit er good when dey goes out in de field to pick 
cotton.” 

“But didn’t the teacher neyer allow you to play when 
you went to school?” I asked. 

“Cou'se, we uster play er little at recess,” replied 



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.vii:Nu- 


“We uster play er little at recess.” 




4 







DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


123 


Lucy, ‘“'but de teacher didn’t low us to play half de 
day, lak de chillun here does. I uster stay in most of 
de time at recess an’ cipher on de blackboa’d wid lumps 
of chalk what we dug out’n de ground an’ dried in de 
sun, an’ de only class we had wuz de one in spellin’. 
I ’members how we uster lak to stan’ up in er row an’ 
spell, failin’ out soon as we missed er word, an’ hit 
wuz mighty seldom dat you could ketch us jumpin’ de 
rope an’ playin’.” 

‘‘You are one of the directors of the school here, are 
you not?” 

“No’m, I ain’t on de boa’d, but I knows er whole 
lot more’n dem what is. My old man b’longs on de 
boa'd, but he don’t hardly, ever find fault wid de 
teacher, kase she’s er woman, an’ ernudder reason is 
dat he don’t know nothin’ hisself an’ can’t tell when 
de chillun misses er word an’ when dey don’t. I don’t 
lak to say hit, kase he’s my husband, but he can’t figger 
out how much money he’d git for er bale of cotton at 
10 cents er pound, an’ yet he’s on de boa’d wid de rest 
of ’em. Well, hit’s gittin’ late, so I mus’ be er goin’. 
Aunt Patience, you tell Marse Albert dat he must use 
lots of dat turpentine an’ rub hit in hard, an’ ef he 
wants some more I’ll fetch hit over to him. I’se er 
gwine over an’ see dat teacher an’ tell her dat ef she 
sends me any mo’ notes ’bout my chillun wipin’ dere 
nose on dere coat sleeve, an’ wantin’ me to buy mo’ 
books for ’em, dat she’d better close up de school an’ 
go back to Natchez, kase she can’t ’suade me to buy 
no mo’ books till my chillun learns what’s in de ones 
dey’s got.” 

As soon as Lucy took her departure. Aunt Patience 
looked first at me and then at Aunt Tilda, laughing 
heartily. 

“Dat nigger’s alius talkin’ ’bout how much she 
knows, but she ain’t got no mo’ eddycashun den er 
mule,” she remarked, looking out of the kitchen win- 


124 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


dow, to make sure that Lucy was not within hearing 
distance. “She’s one of dese here firecracker niggers, 
what’s alius ready to ’splode de minute you touches 
er match to her, an’ you never sees her less’n she got 
er chip on her shoulder, watchin’ for somebody to 
knock hit off. I never says much to her, kase I knows 
dat she’s alius cocked an’ primed for er fuss, but hit 
would be er great deal better ef she’d stay at home an’ 
quit runnin’ ’round, tollin’ everybody how much she 
knows an’ how smart her chillun is. I don’t care how 
soon dey breaks up de school, kase I’se er gwine t3 
take my' chillun an’ my gran’chillun out’n dere befo’ 
long, anyway. Dey ain’t er learnin’ er thing but mean- 
ness nohow, an’ ev’ry day some of dem Pea Eidge nig- 
gers steals dere lunch, stoppin’ at de branch an’ makin’ 
SAveetened Avater out’n de ’lasses Avhat I gives my chil- 
lun for dere dinner ; den dey stands erround an’ drinks 
hit, callin’ hit wine. Some mornin’s dey don’t git to 
school till nigh dinner time, kase dey stops ’long de 
road an plays, an’ no longer’n yistiddy -Christopher 
Napoleon corned home wid his shirt tore clean off’n his 
back. Hit. looks to me lak dey don’t do nothin’ but 
fight an’ tear up dere clothes an’ burn de shoes off’n 
dere feet, an’ de ones AA^hat kin chaw de most tobacco, 
an’ spit de fire out de quickest, is looked upon as de 
best chile in dat school.” 

“How do you like the pictures you bought for the 
school?” I asked. 

“LaAvd, honey,” answered Aunt Patience, raising 
both hands, “avc ain’t never sot eyes on dem pictures 
nor on de man sence he aauiz here over two months ergo. 
Me an’ Sis’ Calline avuz talkin’ ’bout dat scamp yis- 
tiddy, an’ Ave sho’ Avill make it hot fer him ef we ever 
lays hands on him.’ 

“Didn’t I tell you at de time dat you shouldn’t give 
money lak dat to er man Avhat you didn’t knoAA^ed,” 
remarked Aunt- Tilda, stopping in the midst of her 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


125 


work. “I put dat man down for er rascal de minute 
I laid eyes on him, an’ when you borrowed dat fo’ 
bits off’n me, I told you den dat would be de last 
you’d ever see f dat money, an’ hit corned true, jes’ 
lak I said hit would.” 

‘'Well, I ain’t de only one what got taken in,” ex- 
plained Aunt Patience, “kase Miss Sammie gin him 
fo’ bits, too, an’ I reckon he mus’ er got eight or ten 
dollars from de niggers right here on Briers. He 
had er lot er nice pictures in gold-mounted frames — 
one of George Washington, Abe Lincoln, Gin’ral Grant, 
an’ ef I ain’t mistaken he had one of President Rusy- 
velt — an’ he wanted to put ’em in de school house an’ 
only charge er dollar erpiece for ’em. He told us dat 
he’d send ’em down from -Natchez on de next trip of 
de Betsy, an’ dat’s more’n two ^nonths ergo. Maybe 
he fell off’n de boat an’ wuz drowned, but de pictures 
ain’t never corned yit an’ ” 

“An’ dey ain’t never cornin’,” remarked Aunt Tilda, 
“kase dat man jes’ took dat money an’ went to some 
udder place, an’ de chances is dat he’s dun sold dem 
same pictures over an’ over er dozen times.” 

“Perhaps he may have had to send East for them, 
and they’ll come along after awhile,” I suggested. 

“No’am dey won’t,” answered Aunt Tilda, “kase dat 
man never had no ’tention of sendin’ ’em in de fust 
place. Ef he ever — You Christopher Napoleon, ef you 
don’t stop er chasin’ dem ducks out’n dat pond, an’ go 
to school lak Aunt Patience dun begged you. I’ll take 
er switch off’n dat rosebush an’ wear hit out on you, 
boy! No wonder dat teacher’s alius sendin’ notes to 
yo’ ma, tollin’ her dat you ain’t at school more’n one 
or two days in er week, an’ you er tellin’ her dat you 
wuz sick an’ laid up in bed. You black rascal, ef 
you stan’s dere, rollin’ dem eyes at me' an’ stickin’ out 
yo’ tongue. I’ll throw" er dipper of scaldin’ hot water 
cn you ! Why don’t you take dem books an’ go to 


126 


) 


I>OWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


school, ’stead er limpin’ ’round here an’ playin’ 
hookey?” 

‘‘1 can’t go to school, kase I dun hurt my leg,” an- 
swered Christopher Napoleon, rubbing his shin. 

‘dlow’d you hurt dat leg?” inquired Aunt Patience, 
coming to the door of the kitchen. 

‘d fell otf’n er log an’ skinned hit,” replied the dar- 
key, sulkily. 

“No’m he didn’t, granny,” cried Grover Cleveland, 
'‘He skun dat leg .whilst he wuz cornin’ down out’n dat 
chaneyberry tree, scrapin’ hit on de nail what de 
clothes-line’s tied to.” 

“You come in dis kitchen, boy, an’ lemme see dat 
leg,” exclaimed Aunt Patience, sternly. 

“1 ain’t er goin’ to do hit — I’se er gwine on home t(^ 
my ma,” answered tlfe bo^’^, defiantly, as he limped 
toward the hack gate, where he met ’Lias. 

“Ketch dat boy, ’Lias, an’ fetch him here,” shouted 
the old cook, determinedly. 

Dropping the big basket he was carrying, ’Lias 
caught the darkey, and despite the pickaninny’s vig- 
orous efforts to loosen his hold, Christopher was 
dragged into the kitchen. A moment later he was 
thrown to the floor and held by ’Lias, while both Aunt 
Patience and Aunt Tilda administered a generous sup- 
ply of turpentine to the affected limb, after which 
they bandaged it securely and saturated the clothes 
with an additional quantity of the never-failing plan- 
tation remedy. The instant the screaming little darky 
was released, he made a break for the door, bounding 
down the steps three at a time, followed closely by 
two or three of his companions. As Aunt Patience 
appeared at the door of the kitchen Christopher was 
seen to clear the back fence at a single bound, going 
like a streak through the edtton fields until he reached 
his mother’s cabin. 

“He, he, he!” chuckled ’Lias. “Dat boy forgot to 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


127 


limp when he felt dat turpentine er burnin’ his leg, but 
maybe hit’ll take some of de meanness out’n him, ef 
hit don’t do nothin’ else.” 

“Dat’s what he gits fer not mindin’ what I tells 
him,” cried Aunt Patience, putting the bottle of tur- 
pentine back on the shelf, '‘kase I dun told him three 
or fo’ times to keep out’n dat tree, tut he’s as hard- 
headed as er mule an’ won’t never pay no ’tention to 
what I says, less’n I’m in reachin’ distance wid er 
stick. Soon as dat leg gits so he kin walk on hit, I’se 
er gwine to put him to wuck, helpin’ to git dat garden 
ready to plant an’ puttin out onion sets, ’sides spadin’ 
up de ground' on de sunny side of de garden fer er 
sweet ’tater bed.” 

As I left the back porch and entered my room, I 
heard Aunt Tilda singing in her high, shrill voice : 

“ ’Tain’t er gwin# to sleet. 

An’ ’tain’t er gwine to snow; 

’Tain’t er gwine to rain an’ hail no mo’.” 


Florinda, the Dusky Charmer 


'‘Marse Albert, is yer got enny ob dem stomped an- 
telopes in de pos’ offis?” asked Uncle Mase, a faithful 
old darkey on the Briers plantation, addressing the 
postmaster. 

‘‘Stomped whatf” inquired Mr. Howe, giving the 
darky a curious look. 

“Why, one ob dem stomped antelopes what yer puts 
er letter in when yer wants to send hit to Macon, 
Georgia,” answered Uncle Mose. “I dun promised 
Florinda dat Fd write to her, when I seed her in 
Natchez las’ week, an’ I’se bound fer to keep dat 
promise.” 

‘‘I guess you mean a stamped envelope — is that what 
you want?” inquired Mr. Howe. 

“Yassah, dat’s hit. How much does yer charge fer 
one dat’ll take dis here letter to Macon, Georgia?” 

“We sell two for 5 cents, or 3 cents for a single 
one.” 

“How much does dat make one cost?” 

“Three cents, providing the letter does not weigh 
more than one ounce.” 

“How much does yer charge to send er letter from 
here to New Yawk?” 

“Same price to any part of the United States or 
Canada.” 

“How much to Natchez?” 

“Same as to New York — 1'2 cents carries a letter to 
any part of the country.” 

“Does yer mean to say dat de Government charges 
only 2 cents fer to take dis letter to Natchez, an’ de 
same ef hit goes clear to New Yawk?” 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


129 


'‘Yes, 2 cents will take it to either place.” 

“An’ hit won’t cost but 2 cents to send hit to Macon, 
Georgia ?” 

“That’s all — 2 cents.” 

“Is yer got enny pen an’ ink in de offis?” 

“Yes, got a little ink left. Do you want me to ad- 
dress the envelope for you?” 

“Yassah, ef yon please, kase my hand is kinder 
trembly lak dis mornin’. I hope yer don’t make no 
mistake an’ put de redress on de wrong side, kase 
dere’s money inside, an’ I’d feel mighty bad ef Flor- 
inda didn’t git dis here letter. Ever sence I had de 
grip last winter an’ de ’larial fever in de spring, I’se 
had er misery in my chist an’ I’se bin kinder po’ly, 
thank de Lawd, an’ I feels lak I needs somebody to 
cook my vittels an’ tend to de house whilst I’se at 
wnck, so I dun ’cided to git married to Florinda.” 

“How do you expect to get married to Florinda 
when you have a wife and three children on the plan- 
tation?” asked Mr. Howe, sternly. 

“My old woman ain’t here no more — she dun lef’ 
me an’ went down to Hard Times to live wid dat bandy- 
legged nigger what corned up here las’ spring when 
I wuz sick. Maria wuz one ob de bes’ women on dis 
here plantashun befo’ she sot eyes on dat rascal an’ 
his $2 w^atch an’ chain, but de minit dat he ’gun to 
make eyes at Maria an’ tell her what a nice cabin he 
had, an’ how lonesome hit wuz dar, all by hissef, an’ 
how’ happy he’d be ef she wuz dar wid him, to help 
him spend all de money what he wuz er makin’, den 
Maria ’gun to sulk an’ pout an’ git ugly, an’ de fust 
thing I knowed she dun hauled all de furniture down 
to de landin’, got on de boat an’ away she went, takin’ 
de chillun wid her. I wouldn’t er cared so much ef 
she had took up wid er nice-lookin’ nigger what had 
enny sense, but hit sho’ did grieve me to see her goin’ 
down dere wid dat nigger what never could make six 
bits er day pickin’ cotton.” 


130 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


“Have you ever been down to Hard Times, to see 
your wife?” 

“Yassah, I went down dar once, but dat nigger 
drawed er razor on me an’ dared me to go inside his 
cabin. I knowed dat Maria wuz dar, kase I seed her 
an’ de ehillun er peepin’ through de window, but I 
wuz ’fraid of dat nigger an’ his razor, so I dun turned 
’round an’ coined back to Briers. Last week, when I 
wuiz in Natchez, I meets Florinda at her sister’s house, 
an’ she an’ me ’cided we’d git married ef I could rake 
up enough money so she could come here from Macon, 
Georgia. I knows dat I’se bin kinder sickly an’ no 
’count, but Florinda knows how to make buckle an’ 
tongue meet.” 

“How old a woman is this Florinda that vou speak 
of?” 

“She’s quite er young-lookin’ woman, but she’s bin 
powerful misfortunate. Yer see, her fust husband 
got killed in er cotton press, an’ befo’ she dun quit 
mournin’ for him her second husband got tried an’ 
wuz sent to de penitenshy fer stealin’ er hog, an’ he’s 
got fo’ more years yet to serve befo’ his time is out.” 

“What do you think will happen to you when the 
fellow is released and he finds that you are living with 
his wife?” 

“I’se dun ’ranged fer all dat, Marse Albert. When 
dat time comes, I mought be glad to gin Florinda up 
to him, an’ ef so. I’ll jes’ let him take her widout no 
fuss. Ef she ain’t sickly an’ I finds dat she is er 
likely woman to live wid, den befo’ dat time comes I 
kin buy divorcement documents. I dun inquired into 
de matter when I wuz in Natchez, an’ er lawyer dar 
tole me dat he would git de divorce papers ef I paid 
him $30. Florinda’s got er bedstead, er chist, an’ 
fo’ split-bottom cheers, an’ er bolster an’ er feather 
bed an’ er lot er truck lak ciat, an’ all dat is worth 
more’n de papers will cost. I’se puffictly willin’ to 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


131 


spend dat much money on Florinda ef she snits me, 
kase I don't 'low to git married widout hit costin’ me 
something. I dun gin her de 'gagement ring when 
I wuz in Natchez, an’ I ’lows to buy her er hat an’ 
er pair of shoes when she comes here.” 

“I always thought that you and Maria got along 
very well together, and that you were both happy and 
contented.” 

“So we wuz till dat nigger from Hard Times corned 
here — den Maria’s head got turned ’roun’ an’ she up 
an’ lef’ me. I’se got to have somebody to patch an’ 
mend my clothes an’ cook my vittels, an’ I knows dat 
Florinda kin do dat. Ef she’ll jes’ do her part an’ 
keep de cabin nice an’ clean, an’ ’tend to de chickens 
an’ de hogs, an’ does de cookin’ an’ de washin’, splits 
de wood an’ totes de water, an’ combs my hair on er 
Sunday, I’ll do my part an’ we won’t have no trouble 
to git erlong. Of cou’se I intends to ’low her to go 
to chuch on er Sunday an’ sit up wid de sick, an’ eat 
at de same table wid me, an’ I’d lak to know what 
er woman could ’spect more’n dat. 

“Yassah, Florinda’s er gwine to have er easy time 
ef she’s er wuckin’ nigger an’ buckles down to de 
wuck, but ef she’s triflin’ an’ no ’count, I’se er gwine 
to let her go an’ git ernudder one. I hates to bother 
you, Marse Albert, but I can’t write er nice hand lak 
you kin wid de pen, an’ I’ll be obliged ef you’ll back 
dis here letter an’ redress hit to Miss Florinda Jane 
Johnson, er Avidder woman, kear her brudder-in-law, 
de foreman of de cotton gin, Macon, Georgia.” 

“What is the name of her brother-in-law?” 

“Don’t ax me, Marse Albert, kase Florinda never 
said what his name wuz. I reckon she’ll git de letter 
ef yer redresses hit lak I said, kase he’s de foreman 
dere an’ somebody’ll know what his name is. Will 
dis here letter go up to Natchez on de Betsy on Sat- 
urday?” 


132 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


“No, it 'Will go to-night — the boat will be along 
about 8 o’clock.” 

“Will hit cost enny mo’ ef yer holds hit back an’ 
don’t send hit till Saturday?” 

“Of course not, but why not send it off to-night ?” 

“Well, yer see, dis am Friday an’ hit’s de thir- 
teenth of de month, an’ dat’s liable to bring us both 
bad luck.” 

“How soon do you think Florinda will be here?” 

“Oh, she’ll start right erway, soon as she kin git 
her weddin’ dress made, kase she’s anxious to git 
here ‘an’ go to wuck.” 

“But suppose Maria should become tired of staying 
at Hard Times and comes back to you — what then?” 

“I don’t hardly think she’s er cornin’ back, kase 
dat nigger dun cast er spell over her an’ she can’t 
leave him less’n he breaks de spell. Six months ergo 
I wouldn’t er gin dat woman for no udder one on 
de plantashun, kase she sho’ wuz er good wife an’ 
one ob de best cotton pickers in Mississippi ; but de 
minit she sot eyes on dat nigger I knowed dat he dun 
put er spell on her. Befo’ she seed him she wuz sat- 
isfied wid milk an’ mush for breakfast, lak we alius 
had; but arter she’d bin talkin’ wid him she wanted 
pork chops an’ beefsteak an’ ham an’ eggs an’ fried 
potatoes an’ coffee, an’ when I dun told her dat we 
couldn’t have all dat, lak de white folks has, she ’gun 
to sulk an’ pout an’ ’lowed dere wuz as nice fish in 
de river as dere ever wuz, an’ dat she wuz gwine down 
to Hard Times to live. I dun my bes’ to ’suade her 
to stay wid me, but she had her mind sot on goin’ 
an’ moved de furniture down to de landin’ befo’ I 
knowed dat she wuz in earnest ’bout goin’. I ain’t 
got hardly nothin’ but er mattress an’ er bed quilt an’ 
er shuck pillow to start housekeepin’ wid, but I ’lows 
dat Florinda will bring her furniture ’long wid her 
an’ we’ll manage to git along somehow till de crap’s 
in an’ I gits squared up on de books. Ef dere wuz 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


133 


er chance of Maria cornin' back I wouldn’t be so 
hasty ’bout gittin’ married ergin ; but dat nigger’s 
dun hoodooed her an’ she’s liable to stay down dere 
er whole year befo’ she thinks ’bout cornin’ back. Ef 
I had my cunjur bag what Uncle Zack gin me last 
spring I could make her leave dat nigger an’ come 
back to Briers ; but I lost dat bag in July, when I wuz 
er divin’ fer Marse Frank's gun what he lost when 
de skilf turned over wid him, an’ I ain’t had nothin’ 
but bad luck ever sence.” 

“What do you intend to do if Florinda doesn’t 
come ?” 

“Oh, she'll come ef she gits dis letter, kase I dun 
told her dat I wuz waitin’ for her, an’ she’ll come 
as soon as she gits her weddin’ dress made. I wuz 
er gwine to ax you fer to write de letter for me, but 
Florinda’s er smart woman an’ she would er knowed 
right erway dat wuzn’t my han’ write. Now be sure 
an’ put de name right — Miss Florinda Jane Johnson, 
er widder woman, kear her brudder-in-law, de fore- 
man ob de cotton gin, Macon, Georgia.” 

“Did Florinda ever answer that letter you sent 
her when I was on the plantation last summer?” was 
the question I put to Uncle Mose shortly after reaching 
Briers in October last. 

“Yassum, she sho’ did,” answered the old darkey, 
“an’ she dun ’lowed dat she wuz er cornin’ on de 
next train ef I would sen’ her $20 fer to buy er railroad 
ticket an’ git her meals on de way.” 

“You sent her the money, I suppose?” 

“Yassum,” answered Uncle Mose. “I took dat nice 
muley-headed heifer what Marse Frank gin me when 
hit wuz er sickly little thing, an’ I sold hit fer $15. 
De po’ heifer’s mother died when hit wuz only er 
week old, an’ I took dat calf an’ missed hit an’ fed 
hit warm milk wid bran mixed wid hit, an’ last spring 
dat wuz de likeliest calf on de whole plantashun. I 
didn’t git nothin’ lak what de heifer wuz wuth, but 


134 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


1 wuz in er pinch an’ wanted de money to sen’ to 
Florinda, so she could come right erway. I had more’n 
er barrel full of pecans what I picked up in de woods ; 
so I took ’em to Natchez an’ got $5 for ’em, an’ dat 
made de $20 what Florinda wanted. Arter she dun 
got de money she wrote me er letter an’ said she would 
start on de next Monday, so she wouldn’t reach here 
on er Friday, so hit wouldn’t bring her no bad luck, 
an’ for me to meet her at her sister’s house in Natchez. 
I borrowed Jim Sanders’ linen duster what he bought 
new last year when he got married to Julia Miller; 
Marse Frank gin me er pair of pants what wuz almost 
as good as new, an’ as I had er purty good coat an’ 
shirt, I went over to Aunt Tilda’s an’ she gin me some 
bear oil to slick my hair wid, an’ den I goes to 
Natchez. When I goes to Florinda’s sister’s house, she 
hadn’t showed up, an’ her sister said she hadn’t heard 
nothin’ from her for er long time. Den she up an’ 
tells me dat she wuzn’t no real kin to Florinda no- 
how, but only her sister in de chuch. I waited er whole 
week in Natchez, but Florinda didn’t come. I wuz 
powerful disappointed an’ wuz mos’ ’shamed fer to 
come back to Briers an’ face dem niggers what wuz 
er lookin’ fer me an’ Florinda, kase dey dun heard 
me talk so much ’bout her. She sho’ did wuek me fer 
dem "$20, but I wuz puffictly willin’ fer to lose de 
heifer an’ dem pecans fer to find her out. Ef I ever 
meets her I’ll put de law to her an’ have her ’rested 
fer takin’ dat money, though she did look sweet when 
I fust seed her at her sister’s house. She had on purty 
red slippers an’ dese here open-wuck stockin’s what 
looked lak dey wuz made out’n black skeeter nettin’, 
wid er big red bow on de side oh her pompado’, an’ red 
ribbon er showin’ through de lace waist what she 
wore, an’ she told me what er fine cook she wuz, an’ 
how she could fling er hot iron over de clothes what 
she washed white as snow, an’ I got plumb foolish 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 135 

over her an’ ’lowed I wuz gittin’ er treasure in dat 
woman.” 

“What became of ]\Iaria — is she still down at Hard 
Times?” 

“No’rn, she’s back here on de plantashun. She corned 
back more’n er week ago, an’ she wuz mighty nigh 
starved out, I’m here to tell you. I wuz powerful glad 
dat she corned back, kase hit’s mighty hard fer er 
man to wuck in de field all day an’ den, when night 
comes, not have nobody ter cook his supper. Dat nig- 
ger what Maria runned ’way wid dun beat her an’ 
blacked both her eyes kase she ’lowed de preacher to 
bring her home from chuch one Sunday night. Maria 
couldn’t stand nothin’ lak dat, kase I never striked 
her in my life an’ never ’lowed nobody else ter strike 
her; so she took de furniture an’ de chillun down to 
de landin’ an’ corned up here on de Betsy. She didn’t 
have no money fer to pay her way wid, but she told 
de captain dat she b’longed on Briers an’ he ’lowed her 
to ride widout payin’, knowin’ dat he could git de 
passage money from Marse Prank enny time he axed 
fer hit. Yassum, Maria is happy as er lark an’ sings 
all de time while she’s er wuckin’ ; but she don’t know 
how close she corned to losin’ me an’ findin’ Florinda 
here in her place.” 


On the Plantation “ Befo’ de Wah” 


“You Christopher Napoleon, ef you don’t stop er 
wadin’ in dat water in dem new shoes what Caleb 
bought 3^011 fer Christmus, I’se er gwine to skin you 
erlive, boy! You needn’t think dat a^ou’II git ernudder 
pair when 3^011 ruins dese, kase shoes costs money dese 
days an’ 3'er gran’pa ain’t got none to throw erwa3\ 
Come right in dis kitchen an’ take off dem shoes an’ 
put ’em in front of de fire, so dey’ll dr3^” 

Thus scolded Aunt Patience, the faithful old cook 
on the Briers plantation, upon seeing her young grand- 
son capering up and down under the eave of the 
house, where the water stood in shallow puddles. 

“When I wuz er bo3",” remarked Uncle Jack, as he 
dropped an armful of wood and stood at the kitchen 
window watching the little pickaninni^ ‘^niy mammy 
sho’ would er skun me erlive ef she had er ketched me 
wadin’ in water wid m3^ shoes on, kase shoes wuz shoes 
in dem da3^s.” 

“Were the3" very expensive?” I asked. 

“Yassum. dey sho’ wuz,” he replied, rubbing his 
hand over the top of his head, as though tr3dng to re- 
call old memories. “Durin’ slavery days us darkies 
onl3" had one pair of shoes er year, an’ ole marsa alius 
made hit er rule to have ’em ready by Christmus eve. 
De shoes we uster git in dem days wuz made by er 
travelin’ shoemaker b3’' de name of Jones, right here 
on dis plant ashun,^ an’ he sho’ wuz er fine cobbler.” 

“Wh3" were the shoes not bought in Natchez or New 
Orleans?” I questioned. 

“Kase de3' wuz too high. Miss Sammie, an’ de sto’s 
in Natchez didn’t have enuff of ’em to go ’round,” an- 
swered Uncle Jack. “When we uster kill de beeves 




138 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


in de fall of de year, de hides wuz sent to de tanyard 
at Natchez, an’ when dey wuz tanned an’ hrung back 
here we had to wait till our turn corned fer to have 
de shoemaker stay here till ev’rybody on de planta- 
shun, both white an’ black, wuz shod. De cobbler 
made de white folks’ shoes fust, den he’d begin wid 
de oldest of de colored people, takin’ ’em ’cordin’ to 
dere age, so dere wouldn't be no jealousy ’mongst 
’em. Old niarsa alius ’lowed de shoemaker to have 
all.de hep he needed, an’ as I wuz purty handy wid 
er shoe last an’ hammer, hit fell to my lot, year in 
an’ year out, to hep make de shoes. We would have 
de one what we wanted to take de measure ob stand 
on er flat piece of pine board, havin’ ’em stand on one 
foot, so’s to git de measure plenty long an’ wide; den 
old Mister Jones would take er lead pencil an’ mark 
de length an’ de width on de boa’d. Whilst he would 
be er doin’ dis all de darkies would be er playin’ an’ 
laffin’ an’ cutting up, kase dey wuz all pow’ful fond 
of new shoes, ’specially ef dey squeaked, an’ de one 
what had on de squeakiest shoes on Christmus morn- 
in’ wuz de happiest one on de plantashun. 

“For my part,” continued Uncle Jack, with a merry 
twinkle in his dim old eyes, “I didn’t want my shoes 
to squeak, kase ef I wanted to slip in er ’tater hill 
an’ steal er few yaller yams, fer to roast, I Avuzn’t 
takin’ half de risk of gittin’ caught dat I would ef I 
had on creaky shoes. In dem days we wuz each gived 
er new homespun suit of clothin’, underwear an’ all, 
made right here on Briers, kase de hats wuz de onliest 
sto’ boughten artickles we had, de wimmen folks 
cardin’ de wool an’ cotton an’ weavin’ hit into jeans 
an’ linsey. Dey used de linsey fer makin’ men’s shirts 
and dresses fer de wimmen an’ chillun, whilst de jeans 
wuz made into men’s coats an’ vests an’ pants, an’ I 
tell you. Miss Sammie, er suit made out’n dat home- 
spun cloth, from de wool what wuz sheared from de 
sheep right here on de plantashun, would outlast half 


D.OWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


139 


er dozen of dese cheap sto’ bougliten suits what yer 
buys dese days.” 

“They lasted pretty well, did they?” 

“Indeed dey did, kase I’se got er pair of blankets 
an’ er counterpane now what wuz woven right here 
fifty years ergo, an’ Aunt Tilda kin tell you dat she’s 
got er lot er sheets an’ counterpanes an’ coverleds an’ 
blankets dat she’s had fer seventy-five years.” 

“Indeed I has, honey,” interrupted Aunt Tilda, ‘'an’ 
dey ain’t moth-eaten nor rotten nuther, kase cloth 
what wuz made in dem days wuz made to last. Well 
does I ’member de time when — Say, boy, didn’t you 
hear what Aunt Patience told you ’bout wadin’ in dat 
water ? Ef you don’t stop er splashin’ dat water on 
dem chillun’s clothes, an’ come in here an’ take dem 
new shoes off, I’ll git'er strap an’ wear you out; now 
you mind what I say!” 

“Tell him the Ku Klux will get after him if he 
doesn’t obey you,” I suggested. 

“Dat would do ef hit wuz dark,” answered Aunt 
Tilda, “but Christopher ain’t erfraid of de Klu Klux 
in de day time. Never mind, boy — Aunt Patience 
will ’tend to you ’rectly.” 

“Well does I ’member dem good old days,” con- 
tinued Uncle Jack, “when de big room up over dis 
kitchen wuz de cardin’ an’ spinnin’ an’ weavin’ room, 
an’ whilst de wimmen would be makin’ de wheels sing 
an’ de cards fly, us boys would be pickin’ de specks of 
trash out’ll de wool an’ cotton, pullin’ hit erpart an’ 
makin’ hit fluffy, so hit would be easy to go through 
de cards. Dat’s de way we uster wuck, makin’ de 
long winter evenin’s by, singin’ an’ laughin’ till de 
bell tcipped fer us to go to bed. All of dem old reels 
an’ de looms an’ de spinnin’ wheels is right up stairs - 
over de kitchen how, an’ ev’ry once . in er while de 
wimmen folks has me git ’em down, so dey kin spin de 
thread what dey needs fer to knit de socks an’ stockin’s 
for dere fam’lies. I ’low dere ain’t er cabin on dis 


140 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


piantashun but what s got hits spinnin’ wheel an' 
cards in hit, kase dere ain’t many sto’ boughten socks 
an’ stockin’s used here. 

“In de fall, after de cotton am all picked an’ ginned, 
de wimmen folks spins an’ knits de socks at night, 
after de day’s wuck am done, an’ on rainy days, kase 
dere ain’t one of ’em what sets down idle. Ef one 
draps down in er chair, for to rest after dey’s had 
supper, dey grabs dere knittin’ an’ in dat way dey 
keeps dere fam’lies supplied wid good, warm woolen 
socks fer de winter, makin’ white cotton socks an’ 
stockin’s for summer. 

“Befo’ de war,” continued the faithful old servant, 
“each fam’ly on de piantashun wuz ’lowed to have er 
piece of ground in which dey planted tobacco an’ 
popcorn an’ goobers an’ watermelons an’ sweet ’taters, 
an’ as de white folks uster take note of how well dey 
wuz wucked, each one tried his best to have er nicer 
patch den de udders.” 

“Were you permitted to sell the garden truck that 
you raised in these patches?” 

“Yassum, we could sell all de stuff what w^e wanted, 
an’ de most of us did sell de fust cuttin’ of our tobacco, 
which ’was de best an’ alius fetched er good price — 
sometimes as high as ten cents er pound. De second 
an’ third cuttin’s we alius uster keep for our own use. 
jMany er moonlight night did my ole woman an’ me 
wuck in our tobacco patch, weedin’ an’ toppin’ hit, an’ 
often -we’d be up at daylight, ketchin’ de big, green 
tobacco worms what wuz so destructive to hit, ’workin’ 
an’ watchin’ hit till de leaves growed rich an’ large. 
When de sap corned well out’n de ground, an’ de leaves 
looked kinder limp an’ lazy, we’d give it de fust 
clippin’, den we’d cut hit twice befo’ hit wuz ketched 
an’ kilt by de fiost, weavin’ de stems in long ropes, or 
tyin’ hit in big, loose bunches an’ hangin’ ’em under 
de shed, what wuz built at de back of de cabin, to let 
hit git good an’ dry an’ cure hit. When hit would be 


. DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 141 

'bout half dry I uster take what I wanted fer chewin^ 
tobacco, rollin’ hit into twists ’bout six inches long, so 
I could carry hit in my pocket, den I’d let my smokin’ 
tobacco git good an’ dry an’ crush hit by rollin’ hit 
’tween my ban’s till hit wuz right fer de pipe. We 
would alius gather nice, brown, dry fig leaves an’ mix 
em wid de smokin’ tobacco, kase hit would give hit 
er nice flavor an’ make de tobacco last longer. 

“In dem days ev’ry thing counted, an’ we even made 
de lights what we used on de plantashun, kase we 
didn’t have no such thing as coal oil den. -All de 
lights we uster have den wuz made wid candies an’ 
pine knots an’ torches. You never seed nobody dip 
candles, did yer, Miss Sammie? I ’lowed yer never 
did, kase hit’s bin er long time sense we made ’em 
here.” 

“Tell me how you used to make them.” 

“We uster fust melt from ten to twenty pounds of 
tallow on de top of er kittle of bilin’ hot water; den 
de wicks wuz strung on er stick, an’ one stickful after 
ernudder dipped in de melted tallow till de coatin’ wuz 
thick enuff fer de candle. After de surrender ole 
marsa got some candle molds from er man in Natchez, 
but I alius did think dat de dip candles wuz de best 
an’ gived er brighter light. 

“At dat time cook stoves never had bin heard of, 
an’ I ’member well when de fust one wuz brung here, 
on er boat from Sent Louis. I don’t ’member jes’ 
what year hit wuz, but hit wuz three or fo’ years befo’ 
dey had dat big tornado in Natchez what blowed de 
roofs off’n de houses an’ killed er lot er people. Ole 
marsa wuz in Natchez, sellin’ some cotton, when de 
tornado stuck de place, an’ I heard him tell yer ma dat 
he seed cotton bales er flyin’ through de air lak pieces 
of paper, an’ he said dat some of de bales wuz blowed 
clear ’cross de river into Vidalia.” 

“Tell Miss Sammie ’bout de fust cook stove what 
ole marsa fetched here,” suggested Aunt Tilda. 


142 DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 

“De fust cook stove I ever seed wuz brought here 
by er Northern man what avuz trayelin’ doAvn de river 
in er shanty boat/’ continued Uncle Jack, “an' ef I 
’member right, ole marsa paid er hundred an' fifty 
dollars fer dat one stove. De fiist heatin’ stove dat I 
ever laid e.yes on avuz in er sto’ in Natchez, but hit 
wazn’t lak de ones AAdiat dey has here noAV. Befo’ de 
Avar all de clinches had big open fireplaces at each end, 
and as nearly all de niggers uster go to de Avhite folks’ 
chuches in dem days, AAdiere dey had er place lak er 
loft for ’em. so dey could keep by dereselves, hit AA^ould 
git purty Avarm up AAdiar Ave avuz. When hit Avould 
git too hot. some of de young bucks AA^hat aa^ouM be er 
courtin’ de gals, makin’ sheep’s eyes at each udder, 
Avould git up an’ tiptoe out’n de clinch — den de gals 
Avoiild folloAV ’em. Ef AA^e ketched ’em er strollin’ off 
to de Avoods, arm in arm, an’ asked ’em Avhy dey left 
de clinch befo’ de preacher avuz through Avid de ser- 
mon, dey’d laff an’ say dat hit aauiz too Avarm up dere, 
an’ dat dey aauiz erfraid of gittin’ overhet. 

"T never seed er lump of coal till erboiit ’59, AAdien 
I seed some on er steamboat AAdiat stopped at de 
plantashiin Avid freight. Dere aautz lots of timber on 
Briers den, an’ dese old Avoods aauiz so full of Avild- 
cats an’ hyenas an’ Avolves an’ bear an’ panthers dat 
hit Avuzn’t safe fer nobody to step outside yer cabin 
at night widout er gun in yer hand. I ’member one 
night, Avhen I started for Aunt Tilda’s cabin, to giA^e 
her er nice rabbit AAdiat I ketched in one of my traps. 
Whilst I AVUZ er cornin’ through er dark strip of Avoods, 
singing’ an’ Avhistlin’, so’s to keep my courage up, I 
lieard something AAdiat sounded lak er Avoman AAUat 
had er knife driiA^ in her heart, screamin’ for hep. 
While I AVUZ er standin’ dere, most parelized, er big 
panther jumped out’n er tree an’ corned straight after 
me. Dat Avaked me up an’ I riinned faster den any 
deer you ever laid yer eyes on, kase I knoAved hit avuz 
foot hep de body an’ dat I aauiz er goner ef I didn’t git 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


143 


oiit'n dat timber. I runned straight for Aunt Tilda’s 
cabin, an’ when Uncle Jackson heard me er coinin’ 
down de road, yellin’ an whoopin’ loud as I could, 
he got up an’ cracked de cabin door, so he could peep 
out an’ see what de trouble wuz. I jumped clear over' 
de fence, widout touchin’ er rail, an’ when I pushed on 
de door T knocked Uncle Jackson clear ’cross de room. ’ 
Aunt Tilda wuz young an’ spry den, an’ when she 
seed me cornin’ through do door she grabbed er shovel 
an’ most knocked my hade off’n my shoulders befo’ 1 
could tell her what wuz de matter. 

“Yassum, de woods vvuiz chuck full of wild beasts 
den, an’ ef er wolf got after you, an’ you dumb er 
tree, lak as not you’d find er panther or er wildcat 
roostin’ in dat same tree, makin’ hit so dat er pusson 
warn’t safe nowhar, on de ground or off’n hit. Dem 
wuz good days, though, an’ we niggers uster have mo’ 
fun den we does now, kase in de fall of de 3^eaf we’d 
go nuttin’ an’ huntin’ ev’ry Saturday afternoon, fetch- 
in’ in eniiff nuts an’ ’simmons an’ wild grapes an’ 
muscadines an’ paw-paws fer to last us fer er whole 
week, ’sides gittin’ enuff walnuts an’ hick’ry nuts an’ 
hazelnuts an’ pecans to last all winter. All dat, wid 
de’ simmon beer what we made, an’ de popcorn an’ de 
roasted peanuts would go mighty fine durin’ de long 
winter evenin’s. Dere wusn’t er lot of happier niggers 
in de world den we wuz, kase ole marsa an’ ole missus 
wuz kind an’ good to us an’ treated us right, an’ dey 
made de. overseer do what wuz right by us. Mister 
Johnson, de overseer, wuz er mighty good man, an’ 
he’s good to us yet, ef he is all crippled up an’ has to 
roll hisself aroun’ in er wheel-chair. 

'T ’member de time when I wuz er sparkin’ de gals, 
an’ when I fust ’gun to call on Dilsie, my po’ wife 
what’s dade now. She wuz de purtiest gal on de plan- 
tashun in dem days, an’ when we’d all git together on 
er Saturday afternoon, to go nuttin’ an’ huntin’, me 
an’ Dilsie would alius manage to git together, an’ 


144 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


sometimes we’d git lost off from de rest. I ’member 
once when we went out together, she in her best linsey 
dress an’ me wearin’ er clean hick'ry striped shirt an’ 
homespun pants held up wid er pair of bedtickin’ 
gallusses. I had bin er plowin’ in dem gallusses all 
summer, an’ dey wuz commencin’ to git rotten, makin’ 
me feel sorter jubious ’bout dere boldin’. I wuz 
mighty keerful not to put too much strain on ’em, but 
when Dilsie seed er tall, slim saplin’, wid er grapevine 
runnin’ all over hit, loaded wid tine grapes, she asked 
me to climb hit an’ bend hit over, so she could pick de 
grapes. I furgot all erbout dem bedtickin’ galluses an’ 
went up dat saplin’ lak er cat, but when I got to de top 
an’ swung off, fer to bend hit down, I found dat I 
wuzn’t heavy enuff. I wuz er-danglin’ dere above 
Dilsie’s hade, so I hollered fer her to jump up an’ grab 
me by de feet, to hep me pull de limb down. My old 
brogans had lots er mud on ’em, an’ fer dat reason 
Dilsie jumped an’ ketched me by de bottom of de pants. 
Zip — whizz ! went de buttonholes as dey tared out’n 
dem gallusses, leavin' me wid nothin’ on but my shirt ! 
De minute Dislie seed what she dun she made tracks to 
whar her mammy an’ de rest of de folks wuz, an’ hit 
wuz two weeks befo' I could git dat gal to look at me, 
let ’lone speakin’ to me.” 

"What did you do when Dilsie runned off an’ left 
you er bangin’ in de tree?” questioned Aunt Tilda, 
who was holding her sides and laughing heartily. 

"Why, I jes’ doubled up in er knot an’ drapped to 
de ground,” answered Uncle Jack, "but I got some of 
de boys what wuz out huntin’ to hep me an’ we stripped 
de grapes off’n dat tree befo’ we went home. I gived 
what I had to Dilsie’s ma, kase I couldn’t git close 
enuff to Dilsie to give ’em to her, an’ she — Aunt Pa- 
tience, you’d better git er stick an’ break dat boy’s 
neck, kase he’s wadin’ in dat water ergin, in dem new 
shoes. Ef dat wuz my boy, an’ he wouldn’t mind what 
I tells him, I’d take dem shoes erway from him an’ 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 145 

make him go barefooted all winter. Come in dis 
kitchen, boy, befo’ I scalds you wid dis hot water!” 

When I went out on the porch I stopped a moment 
to watch a dozen or more of the pickaninnies in the 
back yard, some skipping the rope, some shooting 
marbles and playing leap frog, while one was “skin- 
ning the cat” on the rounds of a rickety ladder leaning 
against the smokehouse. 

“You L-u-m-i-e!” shouted Caroline from her cabin 
half a mile away. 

“M-a-’a-m !” answered the little darkey, balanced on 
one of the rungs of the ladder. 

“Where’s dat s-p-o-o-n?” 

“H-e-r-e i-t i-s !” 

“Fetch dat spoon here dis minute, boy ! Didn’t I tell 
you to leave dat spoon in de house an’ quit diggin’ dirt 
wid it?” 

“For de Lawd sake!” exclaimed Aunt Tilda, stick-^ 
ing her white, woolly head out of the kitchen window. 
“We’se dun heard dat same tune fer de last fo’ years. 
Sis’ Calline ain’t got but dat one big spoon, an’ dat 
Lumie steals hit an’ plays wid hit all day, till meal 
time, den Sis’ Calline ’larms de whole plantashun, er- 
squawlin fer dat boy to fetch her dat spoon . You 
Lumie, don’t you hear yo’ ma callin’ you?” 




*1 



Uncle Jack’s Return to the Plantation 


“I had just stepped from my room on to the broad 
veranda of the manager's residence on the Briers plan- 
tation, down in Mississippi, when I caught the fragrant 
aroma of parching coffee. Hurrying to the old-fash- 
ioned kitchen, I found Aunt Tilda sitting on the back 
porch, rocking back and forth in an old splint-bottom 
oak rocker; peeling luscious pears for canning, and 
singing : 

‘‘Snake bake er hoe cake. 

An’ set er frog to mind hit ; 

But de frog fell ersleep. 

An’ de lizard come an’ found hit. 

“De debil ketched de groun’ hog, 

Er-settin’ in dfe sun; 

An’ kicked him off’n de back log, 

Jes’ fer to see him run.” 

Hearing my approaching footsteps, she turned her 
head and exclaimed, by way of greeting : 

“Good mornin’. Miss Sammie ! How’d yer sleep last 
.light? Yassum, I thought yer’d git kinder chilly 
befo’ mornin’ an’ dat’s why I left plenty of blankets 
over de foot of de bed. Hit jes’ beats all how warm 
hit gits in de middle of de day an' how cold hit is 
befo’ daylight, but de good Lawd’s got er reason fer 
navin’ hit so, an’ we must bow to him an’ take what 
he pervides for us. Don’t dat coffee smell good er 
parchin’? Yassum, dat’s right, kase dere ain’t nothin’ 
what smells half so nice as coffee do, ’specially when 
Aunt Patience gits hit good an’ hot, ’bout half done 
an' jes hot enuff so dat she has to make dat paddle fly 
fer to keep hit from burnin’. Yas indeed, honey, I’se 


148 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


dun heard Miss Genie tell how dey parches hit wid 
mercheenery an’ how dey packs hit fer to sell in barrels 
an’ in sacks, but I hopes Marse Frank won’t never buy 
hit dat way, kase I’d ruther smell hit er parchin’ den 
I would fer to drink hit arter hit’s dun bin made into 
coffee.” 

After chatting with her awhile, I entered the kitchen, 
where I found faithful old Aunt Patience, with her 
head tied up in a gay red bandana, bending over the 
huge oven, busily engaged in stirring the hot coffee 
with a wooden paddle almost long enough to row a 
skiff or dugout with — one that had been used by her 
for that purpose from time immemorial. 

“I knowed dat de smell of dis here coffee would 
fetch you out here, honey, an’ I’se glad youse corned,” 
exclaimed Aunt Patience, as she continued with her 
work. ‘‘Did Aunt Tilda tell you dat Jack Ormsby’s 
here? Yassum, he corned up on de Natchez last night, 
an’ I’se bin er tellin’ him ’bout you bein’ here. He 
’lowed dat he’d be powerful glad to see you, kase 
he said he ain’t sot eyes on you sence you wuz er little 
gal. I reckon dat’s him er cornin’ now, wid er armful 
of wood.” 

At this moment, Jacrk Ormsby, the subject of Aunt 
Patience’s remarks came up the steps, bearing a huge 
armful of wood. I stepped behind the door as he en- 
tered and carefully deposited his load in the corner of 
the room. 

“Howdy do. Uncle Jack!” I exclaimed, stepping 
from my place of concealment and extending my hand. 

“Is dis here Miss Sammie?” he shouted, gazing at 
me curiously. “I do decla’, chile, youse changed so 
dat I never would er knowed you ef I had er met you 
out in de big road. Lawd, Miss Sammie, you don’t 
look er bit lak yer mother. Youse growed up to be 
er mighty handsome lookin’ woman, but you sho’ 
ain’t as purty as ole missus wuz when she wuz er 
young woman. Yassum, she wuz young an’ handsome 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 149 

«• 

den, an’ ev’rybody ’round here ’lowed dat she wuz de 
handsomest woman in Mississippi, barrin’ none, an’ 
ev-rybody up in Natchez took dere hats ‘off to her, no 
matter whether dey knowed her or not.” 

As* the faithful old darky reached for my out- 
stretched hand and held it in a vise-like grip, the re- 
membrance of the good old days on Briers before the 
war came back so vividly that his feeble old form, bent 
with the weight of more than seventy years, trembled 
with emotion and the tears gathered in his eyes, cours- 
ing down his black, rugged face, causing him for a 
moment to lose his voice in a choking sob. 

“I tell yer. Miss Sammie, dere’s bin er lot er 
changes on old Briers sence de war,” he continued, 
wiping his eyes with a coarse, red-bordered handker- 
chief. '‘Lots of de people dat "vvuz here den has scat- 
tered an’ nobody don’t seem to know where dey is. 
Aunt Patience tells me dat Marse Bob is still er livin’ 
down in Florida ; IMarse John is er wuckin’ fer de Gov- 
ermint out West somewhere; Miss Genie’s gone to 
Louisville, an’ er lot of ’em is buried in de old grave- 
yard, never to rise till Gabriel blows his trumpet an’ 
de angels come to bear ’em to dere heavenly home, 
whar dere’ll be no strife, no sorrow an’ pain an’ suf- 
ferin’, whar our sins will all be fergiven an’ whar de 
wicked cease from troublin’ an’ de weary am at rest. 

“Yassum, hit’s bin er long time sense I wuz on ole 
Briers, but I’se here now an’ I’se here fer to stay. 
When I got off’n de Natchez las’ night, an’ I wuz er 
walkin’ up to Aunt Patience’s cabin wid LTncle Caleb, 
he tole me dat you wuz here, an’ I wuz dat anxious fer 
to see you dat I didn’t sleep er wink all night. De 
last time dat I seed you in Natchez wid yer mother, 
you wuz nothin’ but er little bit of er black-ej^ed gal, 
in short dresses, wid rosy cheeks an’ long, black, curly 
hair tied wid red ribbons, an’ here you is er growed up 
woman. My land, how de time do fly! When you wuz 
er little baby in de arms of yer black mammy, my wife 


130 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


died an’ wuz buried here on old Briers, under de big 
chestnut tree, in de fur corner of de graveyard, an’ ef 
you is er livin’ when de Master calls me. Miss Sammie, 
I wish you’d see dat I’se buried right dere ’longside er 
po’ Dilsey.” 

“When did you leave the plantation. Uncle Jack?” 
I questioned. 

“I left here de fust time ’rectly after de war broke 
out, to go wid Marse Rob, w\d Fenner’s Battery, an’ 
den I corned back wid ]\larse Rob when he got er 
furlough an’ brunged me back wid him. Whilst we 
wuz here, Ave heard dat de Yankees ^y\\z er cornin’ uja 
de river Avid er lot er gunboats, all of ’em filled wid 
soldiers, an’ aa^c all knowed dat dey’d do er lot er 
mischief ef dey stopped long enough fer to see hoAv 
much cotton dere aauiz stored in de gin. Some of de 
niggers AAdiat corned up on de river boats told us dat 
de soldiers avuz er raidin’ de plantashuns ’long de 
river an’ dat dey avuz er burnin’ up all de cotton dey 
(tould git dere hands on, an’ Ave knowed dere Avouldn’t 
be nothin’ left after dey struck dis place. 

'‘One night, when we heard de AAUistles of e.r lot 
er boats in de bend beloAv de plantashun, your mother 
got de overseer an’ er lot of de niggers AAdiat she 
knoAA'ed she could trust, an’ had us hide er lot of de 
pervisions so’s to have somethin’ left in case de sol- 
diers burnt de gin an’ all de houses an’ de cabins. 
Whilst some of de men aauiz er loadin’ cotton on de 
Avagons an’ takin’ hit out in de eanebrakes, fer to 
hide hit, de rest of us avuz goin’. through de smoke- 
house, gittin’ hams an’ iiice, fat middlin’, fer to bury 
hit too. It AVUZ right oA^er yonder in de maui road, 
opposite de big gate, nigh dat big pecan tree, Avhere 
we dug er hole in de road dat aauiz as big as dis 
kitchen. A lot of us niggers spent more’n tAA^o hours 
carryin’ pervisions — ham an’ bacon an’ canned per- 
serves of all kinds — from de kitchen an’ de smoke- 
house to dat place, Aidiilst yer mother carried er pine 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


151 


torch an’ showed us what to take an' what to leave 
behind. After we dun toted enough stuff to fill dis 
here kitchen, we covered hit wid straw an’ den threw 
on some dirt, smoothin’ hit off nice an’ clean, so dat 
nobody j3assin’ long de road would notice what we 
done, den we dug er small ditch ’cross de place an’ 
made hit look lak we had bin er fixin’ de road. 

“Dem soldiers an de gunboats didn’t git up as far 
as Briers for er long time after we dun hid de per- 
visions, kase dey wuz sent back down de river to fire 
on some of de forts what wuz er botherin’ ’em, an’ 
dat gived us.er chance to hide some more of de cotton 
back in de swamp. When de soldiers did come, dey 
camped right over yonder in dat cotton field, an’ de 
gen’ral drove yer mother an’ all de folks out’n de 
house, so he could use it for his headquarters. De 
minute dat gen’ral told yer mother dat she’d have to 
give up de house, she fiared up an’ told him dat she 
wuz gwine to stay in dat house till dey burnt de 
roof off, but Lawd, chile, er dozen of dem soldiers 
jes’ picked yer mother up an’ toted her out’n de 
house befo’ she knowed it. Some of de officers pitched 
dere tents right by de place where we had de pervisions 
hid, an’ de cooks went to wuck an’ built er big fire 
right over de hole where we had de stuff buried.” 

“Where were you all this time?” 

“Well, you see, I had on my old Confedrit uniform, 
an’ Marse Kob an’ me had to go back in de swamp, 
’bout er mile back from de river, where we watched 
to see what de soldiers wuz er doin.’ Sev’ral times 
whilst we wuz up in de trees, de soldiers passed 
mighty close to where we wuz, but we pulled de leaves 
’round us an’ laid low till dey wuz out o’ sight. 
Although dey wuz widin’ three feet of the stuff what 
we had buried in de road, none of de soldiers never 
found hit. Your mother made such er racket ’bout de 
gen’ral puttin’ her out’n her own house, tellin’ him 
dat he wuz no gentleman to drive a po’ woman out’n 


152 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


de only house she had, dat he put her on er boat an’ 
sent her up to Natchez, but she only stayed dere one 
day — den she got er buggy an’ had Uncle Caleb drive 
her back to whar we wuz, out in de swamp. We 
stayed dere for more’n er week, watchin’ ev’ry move 
dem soldiers made, day an’ night, an’ when dey packed 
up an’ started towards Natchez, yer mother went back 
to de old house an’ had us clean it all out befo’ she 
Avould live in it. Dem soldiers tore down all de fences 
an’ used de wood fer to build dere fires wid, an’ dey 
took mighty nigh ev’rything on de plantashun what 
dey could lay dere hands on, but dey didn’t find no 
cotton in de gin. 

‘*We didn’t know what minute de soldiers might 
get whipped an’ fall back on de plantashun, so we 
left de pervisions whar we had ’em hid for more’n two 
weeks; den we opened upde hole an’ toted ev’rything 
back to de smokehouse an’ de kitchen. Whilst we 
wuz busy on de plantashun, tryin’ to git things 
straightened out after de troops left, we heard ’em er 
shellin’ Natchez an’ de next two days dere must er 
l)in more’n five hundred niggers on Briers, what had 
runned erway from Natchez when de gunboats com- 
menced shellin’ de town, kase dey wouldn’t give ’em 
all de ice dey wanted. 

“Marse Bob wuz anxious fer to git back to Fenner’s 
Battery ergin, so he took me wid him an’ we struck 
out ’cross de country, goin’ back of Natchez, he ridin’ 
old ‘Black Jack’ an’ me ridin’ er mule an’ leadin’ 
ernudder one. We jined de battery at Meridian, an’ 
I tell you. Miss Sammie, dere wuz er lot er fightin’ 
after dat. Yassum, I wuz in some purty hot places, 
but dat fight what we had at Meridian wuz de hottest 
one dat I got into in de fo’ years dat I followed 
Marse Rob an’ de Confedrit fiag. Marse Rob had 
three horses shot from under him in one day, an’ 
whilst de shells wuz er flyin’ over our heads an’ all 
’round us lak we wuz in er hail storm, he pulled off 


DOWN ON THE OLD PLANTATION. 


153 


his coat an’ helped load de guns when de men wuz 
er failin’ so fast dat dey couldn’t get enough to load 
’em. Dem wuz de bravest men dat I ever laid my 
eyes on, standin’ dere an’ firin’ an loadin’ dem guns till 
one after another wuz killed or wounded, an’ as soon as 
one man dropped out or wuz killed, another one took 
his place. I never saw such loadin’ an’ firin’ in de 
born days of my life, an’ ef any soldier ever crossed de 
line held by ole Fenner’s Battery, nobody ever seed 
what became of him after he got his foot on de line. 
I wuz struck wid er piece of er shell what hit one of 
de caissons an’ blowed hit up ; er Minie ball went clear 
through my left arm, an’ ernudder one struck me in de 
thigh an’ is in dere yet. No matter ef I wuz ’most 
killed, I stayed wid ’em, ridin’ on one of de limber 
chests, an’ sometimes I rode one of de horses. When 
de war wuz over an’ de men in de battery wuz mus- 
tered out, I wuz mustered out wid ’em, cornin’ home 
wid Marse Rob to Natchez.” 

‘‘Where is your home now. Uncle Jack?” I asked. 

“To tell you de Gawd’s truth. Miss Sammie, I ain’t 
had no home fer twenty j^ears, le.ss’n you calls de 
river my home,” he replied. “Fer de last twenty 
years, I’se bin runnin’ on de river, an’ de onliest time 
when I got off’n de boat wuz when she war n’t runnin’. 
Yassum, I’se bin on some of de finest steamboats 
what’s ever traveled up an’ down de river, as cap’n 
of de watch, seein’ dat de rousters did dere wuck 
when we’d be er loadin’ or unloadin’ freight ; helpin’ 
de mud clerk git out de freight fer de next landin’, 
an’ seein’ dat de rousters wuz ready to wuck when de 
pilot would whistle to make er landin’. I’se er gittin’ 
’most too old fer to be roamin’ up an’ down de river, 
an’ feels lak I wanted to settle down somewhere an’ 
stay dar. Dere never has bin er time dat I passed 
ole Briers plantashun but what I wanted to come back 
an’ live here, so I thought I’d take er lay-off for a few 
days an’ ask Marse Frank ef he wouldn’t give me er 


154 


DOWN OX THE OLD PLANTATIONS 


job ou de plantashun. When I saw him this mornin* 
an’ told him ’bout wantin’ er job here, he told me dat 
I could go to wuck right erway an’ dat I could stay 
here on Briers as long as I lived. He said dat he 
didn’t have no cabin empty now, but dat I could have 
er room in Uncle Caleb’s cabin, an’ he’d build me er 
brand new one soon as he could git de lumber an’ de 
shingles, an’ furthermo,’ he told me dat I could eat at 
de white folks’ house, wid Aunt Mary an’ Aunt Pa- 
tience.” 

“What are you going to do — plow and pick cotton?'’ 

“Xo, indeed. Miss Sammie, I’se er gwine to put on 
er white apron an’ wait on de table ; take care of 
iMarse Frank’s room an’ see dat de fires is kept er 
goin', an’ dat’s all I’se got to do.” 

“How about your wife — is she coming to Briers 
too?” 

“I ain’t never had but de one wife. Miss Sammie, 
an’ she’s bin dade er long time. No’am, I’se never 
married no mo’, kase I alius thought of Dilsie an’ I 
knows dat she’s er waitin’ fer me on de udder sho’. I 
reckon hit won’t be long now till de angels will come 
an’ take me to Dilsie an’ our little boy, up in de blue 
skies Avhar de tree of life am er bloomin’ an’ de streets 
am paved wid pure gold. Yassum, I’se glad to git back 
on old Briers ergin, an’ dis time I’ll stay here till de 
Master calls de roll an’ I answers, ‘Here !’ ” 




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